Toy Soldiers
by morethanjustastory
Summary: "Come here, pretty girl," smiled the wicked man with the wicked white teeth, for somehow he hid his arsenic underneath. He warned the girl not of the dangers that lay ahead, rather instead compelled her first into his bed. But alas, the girl was hardly his to keep, and soon she was forgotten, resting in eternal sleep. [SYOC CLOSED]
1. The Master Thief

The Master Thief

 _For me there are neither locks nor bolts, whatsoever I desire is mine._

* * *

The young woman yearned for the moments she could spend with him. The quick, sudden kisses he gave her when he pulled her out of the halls. Her favorite moments, however, were the ones where he held her against his bare chest and pressed his lips against her temple when he believed her to be asleep.

Moments like this.

Roslyn peered an eye open, watching as the man before her continued to sleep. She couldn't help the smile that played on her lips watching him and the way his walls crumbled down when he slept. Occasionally his mouth would quirk up and Rose would find herself wondering what he'd been dreaming of, perhaps…her? He grumbled softly, and she quickly squeezed her eyes shut, willing her cheeks not to turn a bright rouge. His arm shifted, pulling her closer to him and he buried his face in the crook of her neck.

"Rose," he whispered, trailing kisses along her throat, "Rosie, I know you are awake."

The girl exhaled, opening her eyes and pouting, "I could've been asleep. You could've just woken me."

He chuckled and pulled away, "Well if I did, I'm glad. You're beautiful when you sleep, but even more so when you're awake," Cupping her face with his palms, he stared down at her, his blue eyes still glazed over with sleep. She wrapped her free arm around his neck and pulled him down to her lips.

She kissed him, soft but sure. Willing the court around them to vanish, blocking out the inevitable moment he would leave her to play the dangerous game of being _him_. His hands migrated from her cheeks and into her hair, then down her spine and hoisted the two of them into a more upright position, he broke the kiss but pressed his forehead against hers, "My arm was starting to grow weary of holding us both up," he explained and she giggled before he reignited the connection. He kissed her again, this time harder and more desperate as he grasped at the love the two shared for strength and Roslyn's heart sank.

She knew what came next.

It always ended too soon for her, and even his, liking.

The man walked off to his wardrobe and Rose fell back down onto his downy bed. She drew the covers up to her neck and just sat there basking in the comforting smell of him. He had already pulled a linen shirt over his head and stepped into his breeches before Rose gathered the resolve to scavenge about for fragments of her own outfit and pull on her shift and stockings.

"There are some of your dresses in the back of my closet," he reminded her and she smiled hurrying to the location he mentioned – one she'd ventured to many times. Pushing back his shirts, and doublets, and jerkins to her hidden wardrobe. Roslyn placed her dress from the night before in with the others, favoring one she hadn't worn for a while. Wrapping the corset around her chest, her fingers fumbled to lace it up the back. "Here," He placed his hand on hers, pulling it away, "Let me."

Roslyn nodded. His hands, skilled after many months of assisting the girl with this very situation, traced down her back, lacing as he went. She drew in a breath and he sighed, "I've never understood a women's sense of fashion. How do you even breathe in this?"

Her chest constricting, she gasped, "You don't." He frowned, wondering if perhaps he should loosen the lace. She rested her head against his chest, and his lips grazed across her shoulder, wishing the world to vanish and permit her to stay there with him.

His hands fluttered down her arms against the fabric of her shift, "You're beautiful…" he murmured, Roslyn's cheeks flushed and she bowed her head. The man turned away, scavenging through one of his drawers only to resurface with an ample wooden box, "I was going to save this for your name day; however, now seems like as good of a time as any," he flicked the box open, revealing a pendant adorned with a golden chain and a massive crystal at the center. The woman's unpainted lips parted in awe, "Would you like me to put it on?" She nodded, and the man brushed her raven hair away, clasping it around her neck. Rose's eyes welled and she spun, wrapping her arms around his waist, "Happy early name day, _mia amore_."

"I love you," she whispered, her voice muffled by his linen shirt.

"And I you," he inhaled, her vanilla fragrance as addicting as opium, as stimulating as coffea seeds, and even as mind-numbing as bourbon after a long day of politics however contradictory that may seem.

Roslyn reluctantly untangled herself from his embrace, frowning, "I don't believe we can remain here all day, no matter how much I wish it were."

His head dipped and he removed a coat from a hanger, "Must we, though? You know how treacherous Illéan court can be, not to mention, today is only politics."

"Only politics," Rose repeated, the shadow of a smirk twitching at her lips, "I'll probably have to endure the Duchess Empusa's babbling on about the fresh gossip at court, though most I've already heard from Princess Krea while tending to Catrain."

"Your majesty!" Sir Gideon, his personal guard, interrupted frantically, pounding on his door.

"Stay here," he grumbled.

"Wait, Dorian," Rose whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. Gideon called out to the crown prince of Illéa again, "Be safe," she advised, just as she always did when they parted ways until the next nightfall.

Dorian staggered out of the closet, tying up his jacket, "Yes?"

"It's your father," Gideon explained, trying to coax him out of the room.

The prince's eyes narrowed, "What about him? I wasn't scheduled to meet with him until midday, the sun has barely risen."

Gideon shook his head, hardly able to form words, "No, Dorian," the other man's eyebrows knitted together at the informality, "You don't understand, your father – the king…he's dead."

Dorian staggered back, his face turning ashen. His hand shot out, latching onto the nearest cabinet for support, "No," he said, shaking his head, "No, he can't be," his voice shook and Rose's heart broke, finding it increasingly more difficult to remain hidden in the closet. Surely the death of his father was reason enough for their relations to be exposed to his own personal guard?

But Roslyn wasn't sure if Dorian felt the same, leaving her unwilling to take that chance.

The Prince tore down the halls, unable to mumble so much as an apology to those he collided with. King Berric Schreave was not dead, he told himself. He said the words over and over again. No, his father was strong, he hadn't even fallen ill. It must be some sort of mistake. With little care for the aristocrat's opinion of his ramped behavior, his lack of boots, or a fully fastened jacket, Dorian barreled into his father's chambers.

He froze.

Maids scampered about the room, refusing to meet his eyes. His younger brother, Terren clutched his whimpering twin, Krea, in his arms. The twin's elder, but his younger sister, Catrain abided with a delicate hand on his mother's shoulder as wept on a human silhouette under a pristine bedsheet. No tears plagued his younger brother, Cassian's, azure eyes. He observed, taciturn as ever, no insignia of emotion plastered his face. The boy was only ten years of age, his father's corpse resting mere feet from him, but felt nothing. Normally, Dorian would blame the eldest of the Schreave siblings for this lack of empathy, but even Loreena's influence couldn't instigate such a callous reaction when she herself felt so vividly. The prince before him seemed crafted of stone, not flesh and blood. Someone sculpted Cassian into a beautiful, heartless shade of a child. They cared not of the love and care they refused to take in building him, but rather what money they could make from him, what political advantages they could obtain from him.

"No," Dorian repeated once more, and the attention turned to him. They evaluated his dark, uncombed curls that still could feel the ghost of Roslyn's fingers weaving through them, his bare feet throbbing from the endless sprint, and his lopsided jacket with a string clasped in a hole below its designated one. Still, no one spoke. Tears ran down Terren's face. It had been years since he'd seen his brother cry. He believed the last time was when the golden-haired boy spooked Loreena's horse nearly six years ago and she broke her knee beyond repair. The embarrassment of falling off her mare in front of the man who would later become her husband was so great that she reprimanded the twelve-year-old for hours on end, her anger a deadly combination with the agony in her knee.

"He's not dead," Dorian griped, "He can't be dead. I'm not ready, I can't be king. I-I've still got so much to learn…" He paused, his heart sinking, and he felt the first tear run down his face, "What happened?" Catrain shook her head, warning him not to tread down that path, but he paid no heed. His desire to know what befell his father, his mentor, his king was insatiable. "He had no illness," the future king pressed, "Was he murdered?"

Queen Lamia swung around, her red eyes bloated, "Keep your voice down," she hissed, "If you think I knew what fate my beloved husband met, I would've been able to begin the preparations for your coronation, but I don't," her voice broke, "I don't know what happened to him. There are no obvious signs of struggles and that damn physician hasn't arrived yet!"

Dorian shut his mouth and instead dashed over to the queen and pulled her into his own embrace, the mother and son wept together, her tears soaking on his shirt, and some of his own falling onto his bare foot. Minutes passed and Lamia, at last, pulled away, her face contorted as if the next words were hemlock in her mouth, "There is still the matter of succession to discuss. Dorian, you are to be the next king of Illéa, but as tradition demands, you must find your wife first, by holding a Selection," Dorian tried to protest but Lamia raised her hand, "You will receive the title of 'king', however, the power that comes with it will not be yours until you are married. Though I beg of you, Dorian, do not disregard the Selection. The woman whom you marry is to be the one you spend the rest of your life with. Take your time, grow with them. Learn from them. The only requirement is that your Selection must take a minimum of three months. The council will appoint a regent," Lamia explained, leaving out the fact that the regent would, in fact, be her, "And your studies will continue," Dorian's mother cupped his cheeks, pressing a kiss to his forehead, "My darling boy, you are to be king now. You must send for your sister, Loreena would certainly wish to be here to assist in any way as you attempt to find your wife. The rest of Illéa will hear of the news by sunrise."

Catrain scoffed at her mother's lack of knowledge of her eldest child. Loreena's duty in France as Queen for the past six years left her a stranger to her own family, but she's Queen Lamia's little girl, one who could seemingly do no wrong – something everyone saw, but Loreena herself. The shrewd Queen of France would not return to Illéa for her father's funeral, or her brother's Selection – no. She would return if there was some benefit of her own, say: the crown of Illéa, the very thing the woman had wanted since the moment she was born, yet never obtained due to the law that states that the crown was first to be passed down to the first-born son.

"Long live the king," Terren muttered, causing a chorus of repetitions from each of his siblings.

Within the hour, his mother, the twins, and Cassian abandoned Catrain, Dorian, and the lifeless carcass of King Berric Schreave. The princess watched in pain as her brother rested his head on his knees, wishing she could say something to console him, but none of her words seemed right. She tried, and tried, and tried, but hardly got the word "Dorian" out before her throat caught and she could speak no longer. The king himself could hardly look his sister in the eye without a nagging guilt in his chest. The girl knew not of his affair with her beloved lady-in-waiting. She believed them to be nothing more than close friends, not lovers.

Dorian hauled himself to his feet only once the court physician, Tertius, arrived. Lumbering over to Catrain, he said nothing as he pulled her in for a quick hug before leaving. In a matter of hours, the whole court had turned black. Women wore their soberest, but still fashionable black dresses, mourning a king the whole country adored. The king responded to none of the courtier's condolences, none of their pity. He didn't want their pity, no, he wanted his father back.

He stumbled past Gideon, collapsing onto his bed, now cold from neither him nor her resting there. Time passed and Dorian just felt numb. Perhaps this was why Cassian didn't cry, perhaps he merely skipped past the sobbing face and delved straight into the empty feeling where there were no tears left to shed, no words left to say. After a long while, he discarded his jacket, favoring his simple shirt. Perched at his desk, he started writing on a piece of parchment paper.

 _My dearest sister._

Dorian almost laughed at the words, he and Loreena both knew that neither was certainly dear to the other any longer. Without much more progress, a knock reverberated against the door, "Enter."

Roslyn curtsied, clad in a black gown with lace sleeves, much different from the one she'd chosen earlier, "How are you?" She asked, no apologizes for his loss, no pity. Rather concern. Genuine concern.

Dorian set down his quill and gazed up at her, "Fate or a man has stolen my father from me, my hearts desires are no longer what is permitted, I am the king of a country that I'm not ready to rule, and my sister will be returning once she's caught wind of the situation, though first I must write a letter to her. I am not okay, Rose, I'm not okay."

She nodded, slight confusion displayed in her eyes, but she spoke nothing of it, "You still have me. I'm not going anywhere."

Dorian shook his head, "That's the thing, my father is dead. Per tradition I am under an obligation to hold a Selection that must be held for a minimum of three months," he stared at her, defeat devouring him, "I thought I had another year."

Roslyn's face fell, but she hurried to his side, kneeling before him. She clutched his hands in her own and kissed his knuckles, "Do not worry about me, my love," she assured, though sounding rather dejected, "You've worried about me for far too long, let me worry about you for a change," Dorian paused before nodding and the woman's eyes glanced over the letter for Loreena, and she giggled, "Is this really what you're planning on sending to the Queen of France, the eldest Princess of Illéa, and your older sister?"

The king frowned, "Yes?"

She sighed, pulling out a new piece of parchment, "Oh what would you do without me?"

He chuckled, while his heart may not have been fully there, at least it was a start, "I'd burn here in court," he admitted, pressing his lips against the crown of her head.

* * *

 **HEYOOOOO WELCOME TO THE REVAMPED VERSION OF BEFORE MY WORLD CRUMBLES! So I'll admit, I haven't read over most of this, so I apologize for any mistakes. I'm not really expecting characters like now, now because I told the people already planning on submitting that I wouldn't start this for another month, but I got too excited.**

 **HUGE HUGE HUGE thanks to wolfofstark who was once again the midwife of this story like she was for Before My World Crumbles, you're amazing**

 **Few things I'd like to clarify:**

 **The form for the SYOC is on my profile because this is, in fact, an SYOC**

 **Roslyn is not my own character, but her relations with Dorian will not hinder your girl's chances with him should you choose to submit**

 **Right now, I don't really know if I have like any spots left…due to the fact that I came up with this idea like a month and a half ago and there have already been several people asking to submit**

 **Please, if there are open spaces, don't use characters you've already used in other stories. No Mary-Sues either please, I like characters with more depth than just the nice ones. DORIAN LIKES GIRLS WITH MORE DEPTH**

 **When filling out your form, please title the Message:** Toy Soldiers: Name, Age, Class, and Occupation (or their father's occupation)

 **I'll use Roslyn as an example:** Toy Soldiers: Roslyn Clarke, 21, Upper Class, Lady-In-Waiting

 **Info for the royals is also on my profile and if you have a Pinterest, go ahead and look up the account "** toysoldiers0346 **" I have aesthetic stuff for characters on that account and then on my main account (** mtjastory **) I have like chapter inspiration stuff.**

 **I don't really have much else to say on that front, but here is the history of Illéa for Toy Soldiers – it's also on my profile:**

History has been written just as the text books say. The explorers discovered the lands later known as the Americas, the new nation revolted against the British in the 1700s and the United States were born. People migrated to the States from countless countries and the nations grew, magical and non-magical alike – covens of witches would flee to the states seeking refuge from the European witch hunts, only to be tracked down later in the Salem witch trials.

Magic effectively vanished and the magical creatures dwelling in the nation – whom the Natives had lived peacefully among, ran into hiding. Though this magical gene continued on, it remained dormant in families never really making itself known without something to spur it on. When World War One and World War Two came about and devastated the nation, the magic began to make an appearance again as witches and wizards discovered their powers and attempted to use them to sway the wars in their nations favor but those people were few and most were discovered and quietly disposed of to prevent an uprising.

The country reigned in peace, the democracy in place until 2050 when the Third World War arose. Unlike the previous two, the third war did not end so well for America. The Chinese army invaded, due to the debt that the States were in for them, yet they'd gone bankrupt and could not return the money. The Chinese nation effectively took control of the nation and despite everything, magic remained dormant. The creatures refused to surface and interfere with human affairs and they let this continue on. Witches and Wizards learned from past experiences and had no interest in involving themselves again.

The United States of America was renamed into the American State of China. The American State of China was merely a facade because the Chinese were coffee, influencing all major political decisions and steering legislation in their favor. The Chinese invasion prompted several countries, particularly those in Europe, to align themselves with one another and make alliances.

The American State of China had not a partner at this time. They tried to fight back, but they were invaded from Russia. Russia tried to expand in both directions and failed miserably. Their failure provided the ASC with an opportunity to rebel. The entire continent of North America banded together to fight against Russia. Fighting against Russia was easier because Russia was being attacked by China, too, as Russia had tried to take over China. Gregory Illéa headed up the assault against Russia. The man soon took the nation back over in Revolution rallying the support after preventing Russia from overtaking the ASC.

But the victory was short lived. In 2143, Gregory took the nation back, establishing an absolute monarchy that would last for centuries to come. He even took the liberty of renaming the nation "Illéa" after his own surname, and the Illéas ruled for several decades until the Schreaves came to power.

The story of America and Maxon and the Selection are well known among the Illéans and that of their successors and the Schreave family has still managed to stay in power despite everything. But four centuries later, in 2562, World War Four struck.

Illéans sought shelter underground as the nation was bombed. Cities destroyed, libraries burned, technology virtually turning back the clock, and the same went for the rest of the world.

It was known notoriously as the single most devastating war ever seen. Lasting for nearly a century before society was forced to revert back to how life was in the 16th century. Radiation sickness spread and the population diminished, and though the caste system was abolished, there was still a great deal of prejudice as well as an instigation of the three social classes. The lower classes of manual laborers, the middle class of the merchants and the other brains, and the upper class that included the aristocrats.

Magic finally started to make its return. People needed it to get by. Life had turned into what it would've been like during the Tudor age and the Absolute Monarchy returned, and without the knowledge from all those years of discovery – all those planes, the cars, the air conditioning – and most of the workers who knew how to create those things, wiped out by this new plague (simply Radiation Sickness), the only development they had were the trains that were used in the 17 to 18 hundreds to travel.

The Schreaves still kept their power. They remained the monarchs but rather than have their Selection at age 19, it would happen at age 23, or whenever their father died and the crown prince would have to take the throne. The rules of the Selection had also become more lenient. Premarital sex was not illegal but frowned upon and those who engaged were often ruined in reputations. Rules of physical harm were also discarded, forgotten, and deemed unnecessary, and the concern for the Selected's safety diminished majorly. Women were once again repressed. They no longer had the same rights as they used to, though they were still more respected than they once were; however, were still seen as property. With new names and locations of the capitals of provinces and the return of corsets and Renaissance dresses some would assume that the whole world has hopped into a time machine and returned back to the European Renaissance.

 **Sorry, that was really long – so yes there is magic in this story. It's just not prominent within the first few chapters…**

 **I hope you enjoyed!  
Bye lovelies!  
~Hailey **


	2. My Dear Snow White

My Dear Snow White

 _"Mirror, mirror, here I stand, who is the fairest in the land?" And the mirror replied: "You, my queen, are the fairest here, but Snow White, who has gone to stay with the seven dwarfs far, far away, is a thousand times more fair."_

* * *

Two weeks. Two weeks had come and gone, though it all seemed to blur together in Dorian's mind. Two weeks prior, his father perished, two weeks prior, he was dubbed king and his Selection was announced, two weeks prior, he had to summon the woman who harbored nothing but ill will for him to his home.

Two weeks of waiting, trying so hard to be patient, but each time the old grandfather clock mounted in the throne room ticked, Dorian winced. One second closer to the Selected girl's arrival. One second closer to Loreena's return.

Through the day he struggled, his mother tried to lessen his responsibilities, yet she, too, was in mourning. Guilt nagged at the young king, he wanted so desperately to dampen his mother's pain, but he could fathom no actions nor words that could heal a wound that deep. By night, Roslyn held him. Some evenings they just clung to each other, dreading the moment that Dorian's thirty-five suitresses would arrive and turn their whole world over. For two weeks, the cycle continued. He hardly ate, he hardly slept, rather instead admired the woman who laid beside him. He memorized each aspect of her. Her petite nose, the teasing shape of her lips, the way his fingers had a habit of getting ensnared in her raven hair. Should anything happen, should she not be Selected and her father, Thomas Clarke, sends her away, Dorian wanted to rest assured he'd remember every detail about the woman he loved.

Dorian stumbled out of his empty chambers, clad in black, though this time properly dressed. He turned to Gideon, "Send for Tertius, if you will, I'll be waiting in the throne room," the guard nodded and the monarch went on his way. He kept his chin held high, daring his courtiers to test him. Dorian was a Schreave, and like a Schreave, his valor could never wave.

The guards posted at the entrance shot each other worried glances as their king paused, "Your majesty," one began but his sire raised a hand motioning for them to open the door. Though hesitant, the two guards complied and Dorian stumbled in.

Expecting to be greeted solely by the stone statues mounted above his throne and the vacant one beside his own, the one for his queen, Dorian froze, blinking in shock at the sight of a woman seated on his throne. She rested her head against her elbow, propped up on the side of the chair. "Hello, brother," the foreign queen said, her compelling voice abysmal but feminine and laced with a light French accent.

A chill rushing down his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck stood, "Loreena?" he asked and his elder sister smirked, revealing pristine white teeth only royalty could master. Loreena Schreave la Tour d'Auvergne, not only the queen of France but also the firstborn princess of Illéa, reached out for her cane with long, dainty fingers. The woman seemed virtually flawless at first glance, her raven hair reaching the small of her back with curls that could make even the purest of hearts faint with envy. Her jade green eyes lacking any specks of brown and a fair complexion to match her exquisite features. A true Schreave, most would say, but most failed to notice the details, the imperfections. Her jade eyes were just that, made of stone. Her hair masked a faded abrasion on her temple from her childhood, her lavish dresses concealed a violent red mark on her knee where Tertius failed to heal her. Men kissed the back of her palm, but never turned it over to see the faint, white scars that danced across her skin, the size of her fingernails. Nobody noticed the shadows under her eyes, as they were blind to what was hidden under cosmetics. Like the statues looming above us, Loreena was carved from stone, yet reckless was the artisan who chiseled her, with cracks penetrating her skin, he violated the queen in not only a physical manner but one that poisoned her spirit to her very core. Perhaps it was the same man who crafted Loreena that shaped Cassian.

"It's been quite some time, hasn't it my dear brother?" The French queen tapped her cane against the floor, amusement flickering in her stone eyes, "I apologize for the intrusion," she gestured to how she rested on his throne, "there were no other seats aside from your precious wife-to-be's and my dreadful knee could hardly stand to remain upright for another moment."

Dorian pursed his lips, "No need to apologize, is there something you required? I'm afraid I have a meeting with our physician regarding matters of great urgency."

"Ah, Tertius Albelin," her green eyes darkened at the mention of the man who left her crippled, "I was supposed to meet with him as well, though my matters regarding a tonic for the injury he caused," The queen stood, the very corners of her mouth turning downward in a barely visible grimace. She swaggered forward on all three feet and Dorian opened his mouth to insist that the bone injury was not a fault of Tertius, yet the great wooden doors opened before he could, and Loreena cooed, "Speak of the devil and he doth appear."

Tertius stiffened, his face blanching at the sight of the second Schreave, and a heartbeat later he dipped into one of the deepest bows Dorian had witnessed from him, "Your majesties," he mumbled and the king of Illéa waved him off, motioning for him to come closer. Dorian seated himself in his throne, still warm from its previous occupant, he turned his head to his sister, "I'll be seeing you at father's funeral." Nodding, the female monarch left the two.

After waiting some time before speaking, the younger man exhaled, "Have you discovered the cause of my father's death?"

Tertius' face grew solemn, "Sire," he began, "I swear to you on the gods above us, that your father was in a healthy condition when he last visited me. He had no illnesses that I was aware of."

"So, it must have been murder," the sovereign interrupted.

The older man trembled, "Your majesty, if you please, let us not jump to conclusions. There are no physical wounds on the late king's body, nor are there any obvious signs of a poisoning. Though, it would take a further examination to completely rule the second option impossible."

Dorian shook his head, "If you have no further information for me, then see to it that you do within the next few days, I must know what happened to my father, and soon."

"Yes, your majesty," Tertius stammered, and with another bow, the physician set off to his chambers. Luckily for the aging man, he dwelled not terribly far from the throne room, for safety concerns. As he approached, Tertius watched as Roslyn Clarke, the lady-in-waiting to the Princess Catrain and the daughter of Thomas Clarke, one of the most ambitious and cunning of the courtiers. The young woman turned upon hearing footsteps and her face crumpled in relief at the sight of him.

"Oh, thank goodness you've arrived," she whimpered, her blue eyes bloodshot and full of fear, "I need help." Those words were all it took for Tertius to spring into action, he ushered the lady into his chambers, failing to heed the echo of three feet in the hallway.

The physician her down at his table, and at last devoted his attention to her, "Whatever is the matter, milady?"

"I fear I might be pregnant, I-I haven't bled this month," she divulged, her eyes brimming with tears, "Oh, _god,_ I cannot be pregnant."

Eyes widening, the older man inquired, "When were you supposed to?"

"Nearly two weeks ago, I thought nothing of it, these sorts of things happen to a woman, right? Your bleeding can be postponed due to stress, I have been under a great deal of stress recently, so I didn't believe it, but then the sickness. It's only in the morning so I mustn't have caught the plague," Roslyn turned to him, pleading, "Please help me, I can pay you anything, just please…please help me," She held out a bag of gold coins, but Tertius pushed it back towards her.

"I don't require any of that, I think I have something to set your mind at ease. They were quite common before the war, but now there are hardly any left," he rummaged through his drawers, resurfacing with a small stick. He held it out to the nobleman's daughter, "Go to the room in the back and follow the instructions, here. It should only take a few minutes," he assured.

Rose nodded, doing as she was told, the woman retreated away with a stick she'd never seen before in hand. As he promised, moments later she returned staring in confusion, "What now?"

"Now, we wait. Shouldn't be too terribly long. Would you like some tea?" True to his word, the results arrived just as the water boiled. Roslyn sucked in a breath, "Tertius, what does this mean?"

The physician turned to face her as she started down at the two lines on the face of the old technology. Tertius sat her down, grounding the herbs into the water and giving a cup of it to her, "It means you are bearing a child."

Rose's face blanched, the cup slipping from her fingers. The contents spilling on her chest and her bodice, she didn't so much as flinch at the heat, "No," she muttered, "no, this can't be right. I can't be, it's impossible." Tertius' heart twisted, he knew exactly what this meant for the poor girl, her reputation would be ruined unless she married before she started to show, and even then, her new husband would be forced to accept the fact that she would most likely be giving birth to a child that was not of his blood, unless she married the father. But her father…Thomas Clarke wasn't a very forgiving man and rumors of his unkindness to his own daughter had been circling court for years.

Tertius blinked, "Who is the father?"

Roslyn flinched, she'd been terrified he'd ask this question from the moment she arrived. The girl shook her head, "You mustn't tell. You can't. Please, Tertius, swear to me that if I tell you, you won't tell him. I don't know what to do, he can't know yet."

"Very well," he agreed and Rose sighed.

"The child belongs to his majesty, King Dorian."

The echo of three from the halls returned, but the lady's sobs and the physician's stunned expression allotted no recognition of the danger for the pair to have any extra fears. Tertius shot to his feet, "Keeping such information from the king could be treated as treason. If I had any idea-"

"Please," Roslyn begged, tears staining her pretty face, "Please you can't tell him. I don't know how to tell him and if he hears it from anyone else…I'm so scared, Tertius. Please, please, please."

The physician scowled, had he known the predicament he'd face, the man would have wanted nothing to do with the affairs of the woman and her new child. But once you know something you can't un-know it, "His majesty is holding a Selection, this child would only add to the difficulty, my child you must leave if you so desire to keep this a secret from him. All I can promise you is that I won't tell the king anything unless you haven't left court by the time his suitresses are announced if he is still unaware."

Roslyn straightened her back, trying to compose herself. Tertius passed her a damp towel to mop up the spilled tea, "Thank you, Mister Albelin, your kindness will not be forgotten."

The physician nodded as the lady stood, "Take care, my dear child. Don't wait too long to tell his majesty, if you love him as I believe you do, a secret like this could be the beginning of the end." The young woman thanked him again, but he spoke again as she reached the door, "Please, milady, I beg of you – heed my warning. I do not wish for any misfortune to fall upon you, our new king, or that child you will bear."

She turned to look at him over her shoulder, her brunette curls falling from her bun, "Nor do I, I swear that to you."

* * *

 **Heyyy so I had more planned for this chapter, but considering I have exams next week, this was probably the only time I had to write, but I wanted to get this chapter out to y'all because I'm horrible with updates and I need to get back into a rhythm like I did with Of Truest Heart.**

 **The next chapter of Spiders in a Jar will be the next thing I write, but I needed to get this out. So for those of you reading that too, it should most definitely be out not next week, but the week afterwards, if not earlier should I find any other time to write.**

 **I wanted to say that I made 2 trailers. There should be links to both on my profile, and I would really love if I could get at least a little bit of y'alls character, but as I promised, there is absolutely no rush.**

 **I apologize for any mistakes, once again. I wrote this during my free period which means that lunch starts in less than 10 minutes and I'm hungry…SO if something doesn't make sense, or you catch a mistake, please let me know and I'll either try to explain it to you, or fix the mistake as best as I can.**

 **Thank you so much! Please leave a review, they make my day :)**

 **Bye lovelies!  
~Hailey **


	3. The Nymph with Lovely Braids

The Nymph With Lovely Braids

 _He went under for a good long while, no fast way out, no struggling up from under the giant's wave's assault, his clothing dragging him down – divine Calypso's gifts…_

* * *

The prospect of funerals had never appealed to Loreena. Death hung in the air, looming over everyone – that part was true, but the ceremony itself seemed macabre to the queen. Though, what she'd never understand was the burial itself. She shuttered at the idea of her father buried underneath the soil, left to putrefy in an opulent coffin that would never see the light of day again. The corpse of her brother's predecessor would soon be a welcomed feast for worms, yet even she knew the late king merited superior treatment.

Loreena herself settled for a simpler mourning gown than the ones she'd witnessed in court, content with the black lace sleeves and vague dark green highlights. Her raven curls – she left untouched and simply let them fall to her bosom. She figured, however, that her sisters would take the more pretentious approach in their precious silks and jewels. The queen chuckled, wrapping her pale fingers around the hilt of her cane.

When she first obtained her injury, the _click_ of three feet instead of two against the marble flooring nearly drove her mad but attempting to forgo the staff never arose as an option. Loreena limped down the hall, biting back a wince with every step. Gaze flickering to the window, she paused. The corner of her lip twitching up into a smirk, the French queen observed the scene before her as the Lady Roslyn Clarke and her _dear_ brother sparred on the training grounds. Whispers about the lady in waiting's swordsmanship often floated around the court, but she'd never witnessed it for herself. Loreena's jade eyes settled on the girl's torso and she continued her trek down.

Concealed behind trees, Loreena waited like a predator stalking her prey. She kept a keen eye on the couple, prepared to strike the moment they dropped their swords, their chainmail was removed, and one of them abandoned the other. Her smirk broadened as Dorian said his goodbyes to the woman everyone believed to be his best friend, but nothing more. How oblivious courtiers could be to something right under their noses.

"Roslyn?" She called out as her brother vanished from sight.

The lady stiffened, but dipped into a perfected curtsey soon after, "Your Majesty."

Her attention focused on the steel blade, "When we were children, Dorian and I fought with our wooden swords whenever the weather was amicable. He had always been so confused by the idea that I wasn't going to allow myself to be some damsel in distress for a knight in shining armor to save," she scoffed, "My mother's teachings of chivalry have not seemed to stick, have they?"

Roslyn's nostrils flared, her ice blue eyes narrowed, "Is it not considered chivalry for a man to teach a woman how to defend herself?"

"He taught me, didn't he?" the queen countered, "Every time Dorian learned something new from a guard or our father, his first reaction was to teach it to me."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Spying her brother in the window from the corner of her vision, she feigned a stunned expression, "Because someday soon our precious king is going to have children of his own to teach," Loreena's leer returned and her cold eyes glinted, "With the Selection and all."

Roslyn's bottom lip trembled and confusion overwhelmed her as her companion embraced her. Ignorant to her lover's gaze focused on them, she furrowed her brow at the physical contact that his sister had always despised. Loreena wrenched her cane from the soil, masking any amusement she harbored for the situation. Catching sight of her brother rushing to greet her at the door, she bit back a smile.

"What did Roslyn say to you?" Dorian inquired hurriedly before the door had even shut behind his sister.

Loreena chuckled, raising her eyebrows, "Ah, little brother," she chided, "if you keep this up there is absolutely no way you can continue to hide the love you bear for her from the court."

His gaze fell to his boots, abashed and cheeks flushed, "Might I inquire about what you and the Lady Roslyn were discussing?"

The Queen of France situated her mask, "Apologies, your majesty, but I am expected at the Selection drawing. I bid you adieu."

Latching on to her arm, Dorian begged, "Please, Loreena - you looked concerned, is she okay?" She bit her lip, a growing look of pity emerging on her face as though she was aware of just the affect her next words would have on the king, "I fear the Princess' lady-in-waiting is with child."

And with that, Dorian's world froze. He shook his head in bemusement, "No." He raked his fingers through his ink curls, "That's impossible."

"Improbable, yes – unsolicited, maybe, but impossible it is not."

The young king's shock festered, twisting into confusion, then betrayal and devastation, but finally - unbridled ire. He clenched his jaw, his already hollowed cheeks appearing even more gaunt at the action. Loreena's gaze flickered down to his fisted hands and her shoulders relaxed. She watched as his fingers pressed deeper, his nails digging into his palms – it was a habit she herself had, and quite an unhealthy one at that. The queen suppressed the urge to trace the faint white scars that marred her own palms and observed quietly as her brother stormed off, his strides long and feral and his stance taut.

Loreena leaned against the cold, stone wall and shut her eyes, she inhaled, then exhaled and shook out of her daze as a girl skipped past her, giggling. Small, pale fingers to match her small, pale complexion twirled around the ends of raven ringlets as she maneuvered happily to the gardens. Loreena followed behind, the walls regaining the sense of familiarity they once bore. The child turned, but her gaze passed right through the older woman. The younger blinked, her eyes gleaming emeralds that lacked any pain, and when she smiled – she spoke through missing front teeth, "Ian!" she cheered and Loreena's heart pounded in her chest, recognizing her nickname for the brother she once cared for more deeply than anyone could imagine. When the Frenchwoman spun around, her breath hitched.

"Lory!" the boy exclaimed. Barely passed his fourth name day, plump baby fat still adorned his cheeks. He waddled over to her and she giggled once more – a sound the elder Loreena never believed she'd hear from her own lips again. The seven-year-old princess tugged at her brother's shaggy curls the same shade as her own. His eyes shown, though a brilliant cerulean color many distinguished as the defining factor that made the siblings so different. The seven-year-old girl laced her fingers through his and she dragged him along with her. As their laughter faded, the queen desperately yearned to follow.

"Your majesty?"

Loreena blinked and the warmth was gone. She turned, facing one of her ladies, "Hello, Ismae." Concern etched its way onto the woman's dark skin, "Are you hurt, my lady?"

"What makes you ask that?" She countered, her brows furrowing.

"You're crying."

Her hand shot up to her face, wiping away the moisture around her eyes, "I'm fine," she retorted.

"Of course, your majesty," Lady Ismae started again, "You're late for the drawing of your brother's Selected, your mother is requesting your immediate presence."

Loreena swallowed at the mention of her brother, and couldn't help but wonder what happened between them – even though she very well knew the answer, "Best not keep mother dearest waiting any longer."

* * *

Roslyn's fingers trembled as she braided a strand of Princess Catrain's hair, her mind constantly returning to the queen of France's words earlier that day. After Loreena left, Roslyn found herself fleeing in the opposing direction and into the comforting presence of one of her best companions. Loreena did not know she was pregnant, she could not – it was impossible, and yet, Roslyn believed the same about the pregnancy itself.

"Rose?" Catrain asked, reaching up and resting her dainty hand on her friend's own, she turned around to face her. The princess had always been deemed the most beautiful woman at court, and Roslyn found herself struggling to disagree.

There were plenty of beautiful women in Anwealda: Duchess Empusa, Princess Krea, and even Roslyn herself, but none of them could hold themselves with the same poise and eloquence that Catrain could. Truly debonair, the second princess of Illéa was a flourishing flame deep within the white tipped, brutal mountains.  
"Yes, your highness?" Rose said, unwilling to gaze into her eyes – Schreave eyes. Most would say that Loreena was not a true Schreave, as she was the only sibling with jade ones while the rest resembled the vast sea Roslyn had never ventured to but could strain to see from her chambers.

Queen Loreena of France was an Angelo, the Queen Regent's family – Italian women who were notorious for their piercing emerald stare. And though some would say the oldest Schreave was far more becoming than her younger sister, she was cracked and hardened, a feat not many enjoyed in a woman.

"I know you loved him." Roslyn withdrew her hand, she couldn't possibly know about her and Dorian, could she?"We all loved my father, and I know he treated you like his own."

The other woman let out a bitter chuckle, "Shouldn't I be the one consoling you, my lady?"

Shrugging, Catrain pursed her lips, "The world has an odd way of working."

The door slammed open and Rose's throat caught upon sighting Dorian's enraged expression, "Excuse me, sister," he gritted, "I need to borrow your lady." In a matter of strides, he was next to Rose, gripping her wrist and dragging her out. She winced, her heart pounding - he couldn't know _._ He hauled her down the halls into a remote area of the palace. Rose opened her mouth to speak as the man she loved paced back and forth, seeming. He knew. _He knew._ There was no point in pretending. "Were you ever going to tell me?" Dorian hissed.

 _Yes. No. Maybe?_ "I don't know," she admitted.

The king froze, clasping his fists by his side, "You don't _know?"_ His eyes now glinting like fire, a lethal danger swirling in them, "I had a rightto know," he sucked in a breath, "That you're with child, it is mine after all?"

Rose nodded, vision burning and blurring, "Please, you have to understand," Dorian scoffed, "I was scared."

"You think I'm not?"

She gripped her skirt as a tear ran down her cheek, "You're not a woman. You can have all the illegitimate children you could possibly imagine without a single stain on your reputation, but for a woman in this brutal society – it's the end of the line."

"But you didn't tell me!" He snapped, "I had to learn from my older sister, of all people. Not from you - _God,_ Roslyn," she recoiled at the sound of her birth name on his lips instead of his usual loving epithet.

"Dor, please-" the king shook his head. Deciding he had the right to decide that their discussion had ended, he stormed off with a vigor she hadn't seen in a while. Roslyn collapsed on the marble floor beneath her, attempting to muffle her sobs with a hand pressed against her lips. She sat there for some time, dejected and distressed. Her heart ached and she wanted nothing more than to retreat into her chambers and never resurface, but the church bells tolled, signifying the commencement of the late King Berric Schreave's funeral. So, she stood, wiping away any residue of her sorrows and pushed her shoulders back and head held high. She was Roslyn Clarke after all, daughter of the Archduke of Illéa and the future mother of the king's child.

She had nothing but everything to fear.

Navigating to her spot beside the Duchess Empusa, she scanned the crowd for their new sovereign without triumph. His absence noted by all the courtiers but unsaid, the Queen Mother Lamia and her children mourned their father, husband, and king – black veils concealing their melancholy expressions. The regent pressed one last farewell kiss to the casket before it was lowered into the ground.

Soon enough, the aristocrats took their leave – even Roslyn herself. But instead, her feet carried her down to the stables where she found him. The man before her had familiar midnight black hair that tumbled down to the nape of his neck in soft waves and a face that was perfectly chiseled as if a sculptor had carved it out to utter perfection, no cracks, no blemishes, but sun-kissed skin achieved from days of sparring in the glaring heat. Light stubble still covered the lower half of his face, giving him a rugged look Roslyn believed suited him quite well. He had eyes the richest and most beautiful shade of blue that she had ever seen – Dorian had always been too perfect to be real and his lover often found herself wondering that perhaps this life was some cruel dream and she would soon be startled awake to a world with a brittle, aging king and a prince who cared not for her.

Despondency gripped her chest as he nursed a bottle of bourbon, tossing a stick out to his sleek, wolfish hound, Gwaine. She wasn't entirely sure what compelled her to trudge after him, but her escape was prevented by the dog, a mutt very familiar with her scent. His ears perked and he spun towards her, the stick forgotten, and his tail wagged. Dorian ran his tongue along his lips and spoke, "I would offer you some," he shook the bottle in his hand, "But I don't believe that would be a wise decision, all things considered."

"No, it wouldn't," she agreed, sitting beside him, "You were missed at the funeral."

He chuckled, "Was I though?" kicking at the dirt, he explained, "I'm inexperienced, I know nothing about taking care of a kingdom," his gaze fell on hers, his face mere inches from her own, "Let alone a child."

"Dorian," she began to protest, but he cut her off.

"No, Rose, listen," he pleaded, desperation clipped in his voice, "I was wrong to speak to you that way before the-the funeral," his hands abandoned the liquor and wrapped around her own yet somehow, he didn't reek of the vile drink – instead his familiar fragrance clung to him, one that reminded her of thunderstorms. To her, he smelled like rain itself. "My behavior was inexcusable, and I can do nothing but beseech you for your forgiveness."

"Then my forgiveness you shall receive," she said, and he visibly relaxed. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. "I must have been a saint in my past life to deserve you," he breathed, bumping her nose with his own.

She beamed and closed the distance between the two of them, pressing her lips against his, kissing him slowly. His arm snaked around her waist and she giggled against his mouth as Gwaine rested his chin on his master's knee, grumbling. Dorian placed a hand over the dog's eyes, inducing another gleeful noise from the girl beside him. He returned her kiss with the same passion and her fingers cupped his face.

They broke only when they couldn't possibly hold their breath any longer, and Dorian stared at her in awe, "What is it?" she asked.

"I'm going to be a father," he stated, bewildered, "We are going to have a beautiful daughter."

Roslyn crinkled her nose, "What about a son?"

He shook his head, weaving his fingers in the bottom of her tresses, "I want a daughter with your hair and," he tapped the tip, "your nose."

"I think you're the first man to ever admit that he wants his first child to be a woman," she laughed.

He shrugged, "Honestly, I'm content with either so long as he or she is our child."

Her eyes lit up, "So you will recognize him or her as your own?"

Frowning, his brow knit together, "Why wouldn't I?"

"With the Selection and all," Roslyn's face flushed, "I wasn't sure what would change between us."

Dorian placed a hand on her cheek and she leaned into his touch, "I don't know what will happen between us," he admitted, "But I love you and I would be honored to call our child my own."

She smiled, "Thank you." He bit his lip, "What are you going to do when your father finds out?"

The king regretted his words the moment he spoke them as Roslyn's face paled, "I don't want to think about that."

With a nod, he pulled her closer with one arm and rested the other on his hound's pelt, "Then we won't." The pair perched together, the girl with her head buried in the crook of his neck. They sat in silence, just enjoying the other's company. He kissed her temple and let his fingers ghost across her torso, before settling. He shifted, without a care for the fact he'd just spilled his liquor. It didn't matter anyways, he didn't need it. "Maybe I'll stop drinking along with you," he mused. Rose huffed in amusement, though not responding. She lifted her head and brushed the tip of his nose with her lips, "I love you," she breathed, "And we'll get through this."

"I know." He agreed, "But for now we must go back to our very eventful lives."

She groaned, "Must we? It's utterly dreadful."

Dorian laughed, "On behalf of the Illéan Court, I apologize for the betrayals, responsibility, people crawling their way up to power, but I'm not apologizing for our incredibly handsome king who adores you with all of his heart."

"Hmmm...yes, I don't believe you need to apologize for him…ah, if only he were here." He snorted as she laughed, bumping her shoulder with his own, and embraced her one last time before standing.

* * *

The pirate cocked the pistol's hammer back, clicking it into place _._ "Please," he sniveled, his knees sinking into the mud and muck. She chuckled, pressing the barrel against his forehead, "You see this?" she slurred, waving her free hand at the gun for emphasis, "This beauty belonged to that _'whore-lover of a captain,'"_ His face paled and she spat on the ground beside him, "Captain Lucien Beaumont - did you hear him say _please_ when he was strung up and left at the gallows? Did you hear him beg as king's men sent him to Davy Jones' Locker?"

"What's he to you?" He demanded, struggling to appear brave, but still, he trembled in his breeches. "My name is Captain Lavoisier," She clenched her jaw and tilted her head to the side, "the whore." Before he could say another word, she pulled the trigger, the fire eliciting a wave of panic and screams on the shores of Ponce de Leon as his blood splattered on the pavement. Giselle sighed, blowing the smoke off the tip of her pistol and shoving it back into her waistband, "Well," she grimaced, surveying the port's slums, "Whoever said 'it's good to be home' is a complete idiot."

She kicked the corpse below her with the toe of her boot and turned up her nose, stumbling back into the tavern. As she caught sight of her companions, her frown morphed into a smirk, "Bartholomew!" she yelled at the old pirate, laughing to herself at her use of his full name, "Where's my monkey?"

 _Crash._ Giselle spun around to the bar. Barking out a laugh, she watched as Julian Beaumont, her younger brother-in-law, crawled out from under pots and pans. _"That damn monkey bit me!"_ he screeched, grasping his wrist with his other hand quite comically. Giselle whistled and the monkey bounced over to her.

"Thank you," she shouted over to Julian who sneered in return. Her friend chattered as she scratched his chin, "Quite the cheeky little fellow, aren't you Bourbon?" She laughed, adjusting the miniature linen shirt and vest adoring his black fur. She snatched Bart's tankard of mead and downed it in one gulp – almost choking, her face contorted in disgust, " _God,_ Bartholomew did you piss in here?"

The elder rolled his eyes and rested his fleshy elbows on the counter; he lowered his voice, "Giselle, was killing that man really necessary?"

The pirate queen shrugged, "Hey! Jules, get off your ass and bring over some actual liquor!"

"I can't find any bandages, what would you have me do, bleed all over the floor?" the boy hollered. "So long as you don't get blood in my cup, I don't care how you do it!"

"Giselle," Bart repeated his tone warning.

The girl propped her feet up on the table and placed her hands behind her head, "My dear friend, that man insisted that Lucien had it coming all along," she chuckled to herself, "I guess _he_ had it coming."

His gaze softened and he reached out for her, "I'm worried about you, I know you pretend you don't care...but what you're doing will fester in your conscience for all time."

Giselle unhinged herself from her position and she leaned in close, her breath brushing his beard, "Conscience makes cowards of us all," she seethed, her eyes flaming with bronze, shielding herself from his attempts of consoling her.

A tray of liquor slamming down on the table, Bart nearly jumped. "Aye, I'll drink to that," Julian said, reaching for a mug; however, Giselle slapped his hand away, "You won't be drinking to anything," she chided, "You're still underage."

"How old were you when you started drinking?" her late husband's brother countered.

Opening and closing her mouth, the pirate tried to recall, "That's beside the point. You do not get to drink tonight," she decided, pulling his ration in front of hers with every intention of downing both.

Jules slumped down in the chair, "What was that commotion outside?" he grumbled.

"Giselle shot someone again."

The young boy shot her a look and she sighed, " _Bartholomew,_ I thought we agreed that my bloody pass times would not reach the ears of this fetus."

"Who was it this time?" He asked, ignoring their female companion.

Before Bart could respond, Giselle interjected, "Some mutinous scum who mistakenly cursed the name of Lucien Beaumont in my presence."

Julian passed a hand over his face, then stared straight into his sister's glazed over eyes, "If you're so insistent on killing someone, why don't you just kill that dreadful monkey?" he asked, gesturing to the rag tied around his palm.

The woman shot to her feet, covering Lucien's old companion's ears, "Don't listen to him, Booboo," she whispered, "A black spot on thee!" She yelled, jesting, "I'll give ye twenty lashing o' the cat!"

The pair of men rolled their eyes at her antics, and Jules shifted in his seat, "What of our plan? Any developments?"

Biting her lip, Giselle ran her fingers through her dirty blonde hair, "We should find out if the Lady Aceline DuChamp was drawn and is in the Selection within a matter of days, no worries my friend. We have time to prepare. Soon enough, that blasted King Dorian Schreave and the rest of his family will comprehend what it is to endure true heartache."

Bart huffed, "I know you two are hell-bent on vengeance, and what happened to Lucien is completely inconceivable and deplorable, but it was in fact the Grand Duke of Nueva Segovia that saw to his execution."

"Ah," Giselle began, waggling a finger, "But who is it that employs the Grand Duke?"

"The king," they said in unanimity.

Her lips curled almost grotesquely, "And though I may not be able to attack the Grand Duke directly, I'll be damned if _his majesty_ finds his happy ending while mine lay dead with pigs squealing around his barren feet." Giselle stole the hat from Bart's head, brushing it off before placing it on her crown, tilting it in front of her eyes, "I am wearing black after all. It seems one funeral will not suffice."

* * *

 **So this took me a long time to get to y'all and I'm so sorry, I have no excuse aside from being like mentally drained. Freshman year is almost over and im just trudging my way to the end of it.**

 **But here's the long overdue chapter! It's even twice the usual length! Hopefully they'll start to get longer as well, I was gonna continue with more Giselle but I didn't know what else to do and kinda figured adding more would just be surplus and unnecessary.**

 **For those of you who haven't or don't know…**

 **There's a tournament coming up within the next few chapters.**

 **Basically, for many generations, following the commencement of the selection, a tournament consisting of three parts is held over the course of three days. The first day there is archery, the second day there is combat and the third day there is jousting. Each Selected girl must pick a champion (it can be anyone - father, brother, friend, guard, some knight...even a mercenary) to fight for them. The girl who's champion wins (there are three winners) will get one of the first three dates with Dorian.**

 **If I don't have your girl's champion (First name, last name and faceclaim, how they know them and what they do please), I won't make them one and they will have no way of possibly winning the tourney.**

 **So I don't want to drag this on too long…**

 **Thank you for being so patient!  
**

 **Bye Lovelies!  
~Hailey**


	4. The Robber Bridegroom

The Robber Bridegroom

 _Turn back, turn back, thou pretty bride, within this house thou must not abide. For here do evil things betide._

* * *

Poison was a woman's weapon. It had always been, but it was a silent killer, one that – if used correctly, left no trace. Many said it was cowardly, at least those who knew of the old king's proper fate, but speaking out against _him_ could lead to a similar demise. After all, a sharp tongue can cut one's throat. So, the traitors, most of stature, stood upon the arrival of the man who ended it all but began something else entirely.

Congregating in the back of a tavern, they all turned to he who looked capable of so little yet could do so much. "We should be grateful that the Selection came about when it did," said one, the hairs on his head thin and few, "All the chaos will prevent any further investigation of the king's death."

Another clutched a cross to his chest, trembling, "I wouldn't be so sure, the little lord does not seem very keen on dropping the matter."

The king's killer reclined in his chair, "Ah, yes, Dorian Schreave – brave boy, good soldier – naïve as he is."

"Perhaps we could frame the witches," the man with the cross proposed – yet the one who served the cross said nothing, "Or the pagans, both have been considered enemies of the crown for years, them poisoning the king would be accepted by the populous."

"But not by his majesty and the rest of the royal family," a lord, duke nonetheless - rolled his eyes, "The young king has very…modern…views."

"Perhaps the shapeshifters then?" The arguing pursued, though three of the men remained silent as the dead monarch – a priest, the poisoner himself, and the youngest man present, though quite possibly one of the most feared. The man of the church stiffened upon the mention of the beasts who could change their faces into monstrous ones of other animals, quite reasonably, too, they were considered abominations, works of the devil, but the youngest man scoffed.

"Our new king believes not in those fairytales, nor should you lot," he tipped back his mug, gulping down the vile contents. He was quite the becoming fellow and many of the hopeless and withering nobles gathered that night failed to comprehend what drove the man to betray his sire. There were rumors, as there always were, that the lone scar marring his face was Berric Schreave's doing, leading him to seek his revenge. Yet they were rumors, nothing more than that, just as they always were, "So," he turned to the leader of the group, "My lord, what would you have us do?"

The man stood, his skin taunt against his bones – a fact shocking to all as he had access to the most lavish of riches, "His majesty is young. He's vulnerable, he has yet to experience the deception of a woman. Woman are perhaps a man's single greatest weakness and with the Selection upon us, court will be plentiful. After recruiting one to seduce him, we shall have the king in the palm of our hands – he will bend to our will as it will be her request of him."

"I don't suppose you have a lady in mind?"

A grisly smirk marred the man's features, teeth carved like fangs, "Aye, that I do, the perfect lass," he opened his arms to his companions, "Friends, we will make a puppet out of him yet."

* * *

Emmeline Weaver was not fond of the Selection uniforms. The opulent material grated against her skin, and she found herself wanted to rip if off the moment she laced it up. Besides, she felt out of place. One of the king's knights had showed up at her doorstep, her half-sister, Morgana, could've sworn he had arrived to whisk her off to the palace with him, even Emmeline herself assumed the same.

Yet the knight, Sir Bernard Luville by name, asked for her. She could still feel Morgana and her stepmother's burning gaze on her. Even her brother, Thomas, struggled to hide his shock. Emmeline had packed her bags swiftly, part of her worried that if she took too long Sir Luville would instead return to the palace with Morgana. Thankfully, he waited and soon she was stuffed inside the borrowed carriage belonging to the Grand Duke of Ealdor.

The king's lady blinked, watching as the world as she knew it pass by her through the window. She refused to let her mind wander, for fear of succumbing to thoughts of Byron – the man she left behind, rather, the man who left her behind. She could still feel the twisting pain that wrenched her heart the day he turned his back on her, yet with good reason. The air around Emmeline thickened and she tapped her fingers against the window, calling Sir Luville to a stop, "Excuse me, sir, please, let me out here."

Bernard drew back on the reigns, stunned, "But, milady – it is hardly prop-"

"Please," she tried again, yearning to bask in the sun and run her fingers through the grasses of her home province.

"It is only a couple more miles to the train station, I beseech you to permit me to continue down our path," the knight insisted.

"If it is such a small distance then it certainly mustn't be too much trouble for me to ride on horseback the rest of the way," Emmeline opened her door and stepped out of the coach, not even flinching as her foot sunk into a puddle of murky water and mud. Bernard gawked at her, but she persisted over to the pair of steeds latched onto the carriage. Her guard finally caved and dismounted from his perch, "I suppose the carriage will survive with only one of her horses, it may take a little time to readjust the bridle."

She nodded, placing a gentle hand on one of the animal's muzzle, "I will assist you in any way I can, Sir Luville," so, with both of their hands at work, it took far less time than the guard made it appear it would. Soon, Emmeline's laughter bubbled in her throat as she galloped beside him, basking in the sun. She let the wind rip through her styled locks, tearing it out of the elegant up do one of her brother's maids crafted.

Twitching her nose, the late baron's bastard daughter could smell the capital city of Ealdor long before she saw it on the horizon. The streets came to life; men, women, and children dashing through them for scraps of bread or safe lodging. Bernard quickly ushered the Selected girl inside the carriage and made haste, the horses trotting to the train station.

The Grand Duke himself greeted her at the gates, he smiled with rotting teeth that made Emmeline squirm and eyes that picked up on every detail of his province' representative for the Selection. He offered his arm and, after years of living with her father and then brother, she knew better than to decline. "Lady Emmeline, correct?" he asked. "Yes, my lord," she said, nodding. "Tell me, what family do you come from?"

The girl stiffened, "I beg your pardon?"

Leading her over to one of the waiting benches, the duke narrowed his eyes, "You are representing my lands in court, I would like to know of what caliber a girl who might be our future queen is."

He gestured for her to sit, following in suit quickly after, "My father was Lord Henry Duval, a Baron," His cold eyes flashed in recognition, "Yet your mother is not the Lady Duval."

The fabric of her dress scratched against Emmeline, almost tightening around her as she shifted in her seat, "No, my lord, she is not my mother."

He nodded slowly, the air thickened between the pair and she could've sworn she was seated beside the devil himself. A whistle sounded like a forlorn call in the night and the girl sighed softly. The rumbling grew louder as the train grew near and the Grand Duke snatched her hand. "My lord-" she protested but he ignored her, removing the bronze rattlesnake brooch from his coat and fastening it onto her bodice. The breaks hissing and screeching, she found herself wanting to put as much distance as she could between her and this man. She willed the train to stop sooner and relaxed as Bernard separated her from the man who ruled over their whole province. "Thank you," Emmeline mumbled to him. Sir Luville nodded knowingly; he grabbed her small bag filled with practically nothing except for Byron's old sketch book.

Entering the train, a twitch of a smile quirked at her lips as the chatter of the other Selected, but her gut clenched with nerves and she entered the room and Sir Luville made his way over to the rest of the guards. Six of the seven other girls smiled at her, the other had her head turned out the window. Her hair licked her mid back in plumes of fire, a stark contrast to the dark black fabric of their uniforms, and Emmeline wondered if her face was just as fierce. Then the girl with fire for hair turned around and Emmeline couldn't have been more wrong. A warm grin graced her lips and she had an air of innocence, one rivaled only by the petite brunette with baby blue eyes seated beside her. Emmeline sat down in the seat opposite to her own and a girl with straight blonde hair spoke, "My name is Geretrudis, but feel free to call me Ere. Who are you?"

"Emmeline Weaver," she responded, surveying the room evenly split between three blondes and three brunettes but one red haired girl.

Geretrudis grinned, "Well it's a pleasure to meet you Emmeline," she turned her attention to the golden-haired girl beside her, "This here Rhiannon, the redhead over there is Sabina, the girl next to her is Edith," she then gestured to the pair of girls beside Emmeline, "Those two are Sybell and Evelyn, and then lastly that is-"

"I can introduce myself," a girl with hard gray eyes and violent blonde girls said, arms crossed, her voice thick with a southern drawl, "My name is Mairead and that's about as much as you need to know." Emmeline frowned, finding herself rather grateful that they were already so close to Anwealda that the ride shouldn't be too long.

Evelyn's face mirrored her own, "I apologize for Mairead's behavior, don't mind her." The rest of the train ride passed with ease, though both Edith and Rhiannon hardly uttered a word and Mairead only interjected once and a while to counter something someone else said. Emmeline herself conversed with Sybell quietly for the most part, finding her to be quite the sweet girl. Though she'll still admit she was pleased when the train slowed to a stop and they finally stepped foot into their nation's capital.

Even from the station the girls could sense the commotion with ease. They were hurried into two awaiting Royal carriages, fit for four girls each, and made their way to the castle. The streets of Anwealda were filled with people straining to get a glimpse of their future queen, and while Edith examined the carriage in awe, Emmeline immersed herself in the world outside. She watched as men traded bread, as children played knight with wooden swords in the street. Under the reign of King Berric, the capital had become a fruitful place, though Emmeline forced herself to keep her gaze away from the brothels with painted women flaunting their bodies and hungry men unable to stay away. It wasn't a trait specific to Anwealda, practically every province had more than one – yet it was a trait Emmeline scorned. She'd often heard people whispering that her mother belonged in one of them, yet she knew the accusations were false.

Sybell gasped as the castle came into view and Emmeline's throat caught. The walls towered over all the buildings in sight and appeared white in the glaring sun. The gardens twisted and curved with their beautiful hedges, yet that was not the most wonderful feature – the seraglio sat directly on the shoreline with direct access and an exquisite view of the ocean. She could almost hear the crashing of the blue waves against the sand and rocks and the sea salt on her tongue, but Emmeline had yet to so much as step foot out of the opulent coach. She wanted nothing more than to run to the beach; however, upon their arrival, they weren't permitted to so much as stop and breathe fresh air before being rushed to their next locale.

At the entrance, the eight of them met a woman named Elysande, one of the queen mother's ladies and the woman who would guide them through court. She showed them to the Selected wing where their maids would attend to cleaning them up before they would later that night meet with the king himself. Stepping into her chambers, Emmeline immediately unbuttoned the stiff doublet, revealing the top part of her shift.

"Fucking hell!"

Emmeline whirled around, eyes widened by the sudden noise coming from behind a closed door connecting to her room. She paused, waiting for some other noise, and a maid squeaked, "Apologies, milady, I am almost done, I swear it."

"You better be," another voice grumbled. The door swung open and a small girl stumbled out, her lips parted in shock upon seeing Emmeline in the room, and quite underdressed as well. "Oh!" She exclaimed, dipping into a curtsey, "Lady Emmeline, we weren't expecting you so soon."

"I'm sorry if I startled you," Emmeline replied and the maid shook her head.

"No, absolutely no worries milady, my name is Calais, I am one of Lady Aceline's maids, but I'll go fetch yours." Calais hurried towards the door and Emmeline furrowed her brow, "Lady Aceline?" The door swung shut as though the girl failed to hear her, as was most probable. Emmeline sighed and turned towards the balcony, her breath hitched and she rushed over there. She curled her fingers around the stone wall and stared out at the horizon, basking in the smell.

"Who are you?"

She twirled, finding herself shocked once more coming face to face with high cheekbones, sun kissed ringlets, and eyes that looked both light brown and dark brown at the same time. A hand on her hip, the woman carried herself with an air of regality that was almost comically intimidating, "Emmeline Weaver."

"Ah," the woman said, her eyes flickering across her form as though she were deciding whether she was a threat, "So you're my roommate."

"I beg your pardon?" Emmeline bit her lip, and the girl in front of her snickered.

"I'm Aceline, you and I are going to be sharing this room so I sure hope you don't mind monkeys."

* * *

Catrain raised her eyebrow, "My dear sister, might I ask what you are wearing?" Unfazed by her sister's chastising – or rather unaware, Princess Krea twirled in her ornate pink dress, "Isn't it beautiful? It was a gift from Lady Alinora when she arrived with our elder sister."

"It's quite lovely," the brunette princess agreed, "But don't you believe it's still far too soon to be wearing a gown that shade?"

Krea shrugged, her usual child-like grin still sewn into her face framed by her thick golden locks, "Lord Demetrius Caine informed me that it was unbecoming of a woman to remain in mourning for such a long duration of time."

The lively girl's older sister gazed at her pitifully, well aware of her feelings towards the noblemen. In fact, most of court was either smitten with her brother or with Lord Caine, "The Baron's father is still alive, is he not?"

"Yes," Krea admitted, "But I hardly see how that matters."

Catrain rested a hand on her sister's arm, "Then he knows nothing of what it is like to lose a father and is therefore unqualified to tell you as to when you must stop mourning. So, wear the dress if you truly wish, don't wear it because a man told you to." She pulled Krea into a tight embrace, "The only men we can depend on in this world are our brothers, any others are of little consequence."

The pair walked down the hall, begrudgingly avoiding the Selected as their mother had ordered, "Cassian should be returning from Aunt Ginevra's estate in Avalon today," Krea said, attempting to break the tension that had gathered between the sisters, "He isn't going to be pleased when he discovers all he's missed."

After the death of the old king, their mother had ushered her youngest child to the opposite side of the country with her sister to keep him safe until life at court calmed. "I believe he'd be far too distracted by the arrival of our oldest sister to concern himself with all that he's missed."

"At least our brother doesn't crave attention," Krea said, "He won't be getting much of it with these new guests." Catrain laughed, tilting her head back in the process, "You are completely right."

A maid turned around the corner, her pale blonde hair peeking out underneath a cloth tied around her head, "My ladies," she curtseyed then turned to the elder princess, "The Queen Regent wishes to speak with you," she bit her lip, "Your grace."

Catrain nodded, "Thank you," as she examined the girl, her lips turned down, "Pardon me asking, but what is your name? I don't believe I've ever seen you before." The girl's blue eyes widened, "Leah, your grace, with the Selection starting, the Queen Regent hired new hands."

"Well, thank you, Leah, I appreciate your assistance." Krea stared in awe at her sister, never quite understanding how one woman could possess so much dignity and poise.

Catrain parted ways with the two other girls and met her mother in her father's old study. She tapped on the door, pressing her lips together to prevent a gasp when she entered. Unlike her daughter had expected, Lamia was not alone in the room. Standing beside her was a tall, tan man with dark hair and dressed in floral fabrics a pink shade brighter than that on Krea's gown. "Catrain!" her mother said, a smile gracing her elegant features, "This is Prince Marcello Sanservino of Italy, his father is a close friend of my father."

The Illéan princess bowed, "Your grace, what brings you to our country?"

Lamia pursed her lips, "King Salvadore wishes to join our houses. Your father accepted before everything happened, and then with the Selection and the funeral…I meant to inform you earlier."

The hand clutching her abdomen the only sign of her distress, Catrain tried to smile pleasantly, pushing back the tears in her eyes. She knew she'd be married someday, she was already twenty and her parents had been married since they were fourteen. Yet her heart pounded, her stomach flipped, and she felt sick. However, Prince Marcello failed to catch on, "Princess Catrain," he said, "Would you like to take a walk in the gardens? I saw them from the carriage and they look positively lovey. I've been itching to see them for my own eyes."

"Of course," the girl complied, not daring to say another word for fear of her voice breaking. Lamia grinned, clapped her hand together, and waved the two off. Catrain led her new fiancé to the castle exit.

"I am no fool, your grace." Marcello said.

Catrain furrowed her eyebrows, stuttering – something she never did, "I apologize if I have said anything that made you believe I'm questioning your intellect, Prince Marcello."

His fingers drummed against the hilt of his sword as they walked. Quite the pair they were, one dressed in an ornate mourning gown, standing out against the pale roses that wrapped around columns and the other robed as though he belonged there yet he was the foreigner, he raised his other arm for her to take, "Please, call me Marcel. And, it was nothing you said, my princess, but rather what you _didn't_ say."

"I do not understand what you are implying…Marcel." She clenched her fists at her side and cast her gaze back towards the palace. Her brother was also meeting the woman he was to marry this day – in fact she could practically hear the laughter of the Selected girls. "I know you do not wish to be wed to me, and I would be that fool if I thought you would. I just hope with time you won't find our arrangement awful."

They turned the corner and noticed a girl seated by a fountain with a box in her lap. She wore the Selection uniform adorned with a beaver brooch and hair tied up in an elaborate bun with two tendrils falling into her face. Marcel ran his tongue over his lip, almost irritated at the visitor, but Catrain ignored him. "Lady Colette, correct?"

The girl's head shot up towards them and the first thing the princess noted was that she was incredibly beautiful, enviously so. She had the face of a woman, a bit harder than her own, but beautiful nevertheless. The Selected girl set the box to the side and stood to dip into a curtsey, "Your highness."

"No need for that, Catrain is fine," the princess insisted, Colette nodded and Catrain shot a glance at Marcel who appeared almost offended by the fact that he had yet to be given permission to refer to her by anything without her title. An expression that did not go unnoticed by Colette. The Selected bowed again for the Italian prince, "It was a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, but I must be returning to the castle – I believe our meeting with his majesty the king will be commencing soon." She said, dismissing herself and snatching up her box before either royal could get a better glimpse.

"Well…your brother's lady seems nice," Marcel said and Catrain smiled, something the prince deemed as a small victory.

Trumpets sounded off in the distance and the Illéan swung around in that direction, "Cassian has returned!" She exclaimed, gathering her skirts up in her hands and taking off in her younger brother's direction. Marcel laughed at the break of composure and took off after the enticing woman, without a care of looking ridiculous sprinting after her.

He caught up to her with ease, slowing down beside her as she returned to walking. They reunited with the rest of court and Catrain fell in place behind Loreena, who was basically brimming with excitement.

The carriage door swung open to reveal the slim boy, rather tall for his age, dressed too warm for the capital but probably correctly for Avalon and the other northern provinces. His usual stoic expression lit up in the widest grin she'd seen from the little prince in a long time when his eyes settled on their eldest sister. Forgetting all poise, Cass dashed down the steps and ran straight into the awaiting Loreena. He buried his face in her shoulder and she clutched the back of his neck, both crouched on the ground. Catrain's eye caught on the silver wolf ring on Loreena's finger, a symbol of her marriage. The younger Schreave looked towards her fiancé, mind blank as to what her future sigil would be, similar to the rest of her emotions concerning the engagement

It seemed like hours before Cassian and Loreena finally untangled themselves from their embrace, and even then, the pair stayed rather close together. Catrain, for the first time, noticed the Selected girls gathered behind the royals, dressed like soldiers going off into a battle, and perhaps that's what the Selection was.

It was a brutal war of hearts and the princess pitied the fools who shared her home. Yet the die was cast and the future was a gamble.

* * *

 **Holy jesus that took so long to finish and I'm so sorry I kept y'all waiting for so long. So people for the tournament is closed, I waited for a long time and needed to figure out who would win and I already did, so if I never received a champion from you, I'm sorry – they'll still get a date in the future but not one of the first three.**

 **My second order of business is that I've decided to set a deadline for when I require finished forms. I started this a while ago and wasn't planning on starting until early march/late February but then then decided to go earlier, but didn't require characters right then. Now I'd like to get this story moving, it's near impossible for me to write a character when I don't have any of their form at all. I'd like to get things moving and actually be able to decide who the winner is. Right now that tentative** June 1st **I don't intend on extending that, but if something serious comes up, I understand.**

 **My last thing is that I don't just write this story for me. I write it for those of you who read it and submit a character, which means I want yall to be interactive. If you have a girl you want to see more, let me know. I can't promise I will include her more but I'll certainly see about it. And I cannot stress enough that if you have a character I would like you to review. You don't have to review every single chapter, but I would appreciate knowing you are actually reading the story and have feedback.**

 **I'm always more motivated to write a character where her author is a frequent reviewer.**

 **Bye Lovelies!  
~Hailey **


	5. Gather Up the Killers

Gather Up the Killers

 _"Well, well," said he as he stroked his hair down on his head, "who would have thought it."_

* * *

Gideon laughed as the young king of Illéa fell face first onto his downy bed, "So, your majesty," he asked, "how was the first meeting with the girls?"

Dorian groaned, "That was a week ago, I sent Ladies Octavia, Lavinia, and Lucretia home. Do you know how rude women could be?" With a chuckle, the knight sat down beside his friend, armor clanging, "You have no idea, Dor, women are brutal creatures. But that's not what I was referring to."

Turning his head, the king's blue eyes still looked shocked, "Rose is in. She's in the Selection. I can marry her in _three_ months."

Gideon bit his lip, "Your Majesty, three months is a long time, perhaps there is someone else."

"No," Dorian insisted, "Roslyn Clarke is the love of my life and she's carrying my child, you know that." The king's companion nodded his head, he had in fact known – Dorian was not exactly the greatest secret keeper of the bunch, that crown belonged to the fair-haired Schreave, Terren. The raven-haired royal had nearly trampled the knight out in the training grounds after discovering his future parental status. Dorian had told him everything, though was quite stunned to find out that Gideon was already aware of his relations with the Archduke's daughter. Dorian shuddered, "Anyways, after that I ran into Cassian and did you know that it only takes a couple of months away from court for his tongue to loosen? He wouldn't stop talking! Kept going on and on about Adrastos de Troya – Aunt Ginevra's son – ' _He was five years my senior but I still towered over him, have you ever seen an imp, Dorian? It was utterly fascinating.'_ Poor Adrastos already gets enough attention for his stance, he certainly doesn't need any more pestering from Cassian Schreave's newfound curiosity."

Chuckling, the knight hauled himself to his feet, "Well, your majesty, if that is all you need I'll fetch Sir Otus to watch the door, I have matters to attend to in town." Dorian waved him off and Gideon escaped the palace soon after, leaving the armor behind but keeping his sword at his hip.

He wandered through the cobblestone streets of Anwealda, searching for one particular house. When he reached a small wooden door, the frames nearly rotten, Gideon grimaced – no way out then. Hearing voices inside, he raised a fist to the door and knocked. However, when no answer came, he let himself in. "Oh, god dammit," Gideon moaned, covering his eyes at the sight a couple in the single bed placed in the living quarters, "You couldn't have told me not to come in until you were decent?" He peered out when he thought it was safe but the male with long blond hair stood, revealing himself completely to the king's guard. Gideon turned his back on them, ignoring the sight of shirtless man and the nude woman covering her body with the wool covers.

Then the blond spoke, "You know, Gid – if someone doesn't open the door for you, that means they probably don't want you to enter."

Gideon raised his eyebrows, turning around when his companion said it was safe to. He eyed the woman in the bed apologetically, "Perhaps we should go into another room?"

The man cringed, "What other room? This is all I got."

"It is alright, Dario," the woman spoke, shuffling with her garments behind the backs of the men, "I'm nearly dressed, I'll be on my way."

Dario grabbed the woman's wrist and spun her around, "Leah-"

"It is no problem," she said, "I'll see you later then?"

When Dario nodded, Gideon spoke, "Leah Drake? You work at the palace, correct?"

The blonde girl bit her lip, "I just started. All I do now is wash dishes and occasionally assist with washing clothes." Dario released his grip and she exited his hut – most likely to return to work. Once she was gone, he grabbed the pitcher and poured the contents into a mug, "It's not wine," he apologized, handing the glass to Gideon, "But it will do the trick."

The knight shook his head, "I don't drink on the job – I also do not sleep with the women I work with."

Dario laughed, "Yes, because you are so honorable that you wouldn't dare touch one of the maids. Oh, please, cousin. You and I both know you're deluding yourself. Besides, I don't work with Leah," he shrugged, drinking the alcohol himself and flashing the other man a wink, "Yet."

The brunet ran his fingers across his cousin's countertop, "What happened to you, Dario? Your family used to be at the top of the world and now you're living in the slums – knee deep in horse shit."

He scoffed, "You mean our family. Your mother was once an Illéa, too."

"So you say," Gideon mumbled, running his fingers through his hair, "But then she was seduced by my bastard of a father, forced into a marriage she didn't want only to perish in childbirth. Your father hates me, blames me for his sister's suffrage."

"Like he thinks much more of me," Dario Illéa raised his cup, "The drunkard who squandered all his money away gambling, leaving them penniless, who is now turning to the family exile for employment. Oh yes," he chuckled, "My father adores me."

Gideon rolled his eyes, "Meet me at the castle gates tomorrow, I'll take you to the training grounds and we'll talk to King Dorian then about a place in the guard for you."

The blond man nodded gratefully, "Thank you, Gid, I don't believe you understand how much you are doing for me."

A small smirk creeping onto his face, the knight bumped his cousin's shoulder, "Family above all, isn't that the Illéa motto?" Dario barked out a laugh, "Not even close, mate. Probably some shit about gold, women, and cursing the Schreaves."

Gideon returned the chuckle, opening the door behind him, "Farewell, until tomorrow."

"God's Speed, Sir Gideon Westervelt – personal knight to the young lad, King Dorian," Dario jested, wiggling his eyebrows.

Returning to the city's streets, Gideon kept his head down to avoid unwanted encounters. A woman's scream rang out as the knight passed the bakery he'd been fond of as a child, and Gideon froze. Moments later, he hurried to the source. When he caught sight of the three men and a familiar woman backed against a wall, fear blatant in her eyes – Gideon nearly lost it. He called out to the bastards, drawing two of them away from her while the other remained at her side. Sword in hand, Gideon drove the weapon through the chest of the nearest attacker. The man crumpled to the ground, gasping for air as his blood mixed with the piss on the streets, and the woman let out another scream. Wasting no time, the knight cut down the other assailant and chased down the third in the back alleyways, sweat and blood causing his clothes to cling uncomfortably to his body.

With a free hand, Gideon pushed back his dark hair and turned around the corner. He turned straight into the last man and a sharp agonizing pain burst in his gut. He sucked in a breath and stumbled back against one of the clay walls, sword falling from his grip and bracing himself against the surface while the other wrapped around the knife plunged in his stomach. Gideon cursed under his breath and the man, nearly twice his age and missing several teeth, grinned at his handiwork. He pushed the pale-faced girl to the ground and stalked towards the injured man. Gideon's vision blurred and one of his legs gave out – or had the vile man knocked it out from under him – he didn't quite know? But he cried out as the movement jarred the wound.

From the corner of his eye, the knight noticed the woman reaching for his sword as their attacker ripped the knife out of his next victim. Gideon spat at the man's feet, causing him to snarl and send his fist flying against the knight's jaw. The brunet fell to the ground, the impact jarring his shoulder. Gideon's eyes flickered across the scene, cursing himself for not being more careful. He tried to reach for a broken splinter of wood only to have the man's bare foot slam down on his fingers. He yelled again and his attacker grabbed onto Gideon's vest, revealing Dorian's lion sigil, he scoffed, "Some king's guard you are."

Right as Gideon intended on accepting his fate, the man before him sputtered, choking on blood in his mouth as the knight's own sword skewered him. Perhaps it was the sheer disgust of having the man's blood spat on his face or the steady loss of his own, but the last thing he remembered was the man falling beside him and the woman gripping the handle of his own dirtied sword before he lost consciousness.

* * *

Gideon did not know how much time had passed before his eyes finally opened again. He tried to sit up, placing his elbow beneath him for support. His lower abdomen burned and he hissed in pain, the noise finally attracting the attention of a woman huddled by a table.

"No!" She chastised, hurrying to move his arm and lay him back down, "Don't get up, you'll reopen your wound."

The knight scrunched up his nose, finally getting a good look at the woman he had saved, or rather – the woman who saved him, "Lady Myla Ashdown?" he croaked, his jaw stiff and sore. The girl smiled sheepishly, dipping into a quick curtsey, before pulling off a bandage on his bare chest. Gideon frowned, gazing down at the pale flesh, "Where did my shirt go?"

Myla blushed, "I had to take off the shirt to clean your wound properly, the local medic was kind enough to assist as I am merely an herbalist after that man stabbed you. Be grateful you are alive, any other angle and you probably wouldn't be."

Blinking, the knight's scattered mind tried it piece everything together, "Why were you in the slums? Without a guard?"

She twirled her chestnut hair around the tip of her finger, "I had a guard," she insisted, "I was looking for a champion for the tourney right around the castle but then I guess I wandered too far and thought my guard was behind me," Myla cast her eyes downward, "I got lost and then those three guys found me, and you know the rest. Thank you, by the way, for saving me."

He gestured to himself sprawled out on the cot – tired and wounded, "I hardly count this as a heroic saving." Myla giggled, covering her mouth with a grass stained hand, and it must have been an effect of the nausea but Gideon believed it to be the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. He grinned, deciding he would do whatever he could just to hear that sound again. "You need a champion?" He asked and she nodded, "Well, I just happen to be a knight."

Myla rolled her eyes, "I figured as much when I saw the sigil on your jacket."

He shook his head, "No, I'm King Dorian's personal knight – you just caught me in a bad moment, I have usually got more skill. I think being your champion is the least I can do for killing two men before your eyes."

Despite herself, she squealed, pulling him into an awkward embrace, "Really?" then realizing that he still was half-naked, she quickly drew away. Clearing her throat, she said, "No – no, you're already injured! I don't want you hurting yourself even more on my behalf."

Gideon cocked a brow, "Refuse me know and I'll have to return to the castle with not only a wounded chest, but also a wounded honor."

Trying to conceal her grin, Myla said, "We would not want that, would we?"

* * *

Despite the accustom year of mourning, Evelyn Hawkins still felt like a traitor wearing any color aside from black. She sat quietly in the background as the rest of the Selected conversed. A while ago, quite a few hovered around Roslyn, attempting to dig up information about their king and one of their future husband. Yet know the conversation was directed more towards the girl's champions as they'd begun to arrive at the palace and a ball that night was in preparations.

"You are aware that Sir Geoffrey is a complete ass, right?" Roslyn asked, incredulous, after discovering Cesraeah Lethodal – the candidate from Avalon – had conceded his request to be her champion at the tourney. "All he wants is to have his way with Princess Krea and he believes that showing valor at the tournament will have her falling at his feet."

Martina tilted her head back as she laughed, her dark curls swaying behind her as she did, "Is Sir Geoffrey aware that she, along with nearly every other woman in this court, is quite smitten with Baron Caine?"

With a roll of her eyes, the dark-haired friend to the king agreed, "I do not even see the reason why!" She exclaimed, "Dor-his majesty is much more attractive than the baron. But Krea should keep admiring Demetrius – I'd be disturbed if she felt an attraction for her own brother."

"It's the scar," Lady Aceline revealed, inspecting her golden dress for any holes, "Scars make women weak at the knees. They're sexually arousing for some reason."

Evelyn's eyes widened at the girl's crude remark but the princess' lady chuckled, yet said nothing else. Cesraeah admired the intricate designs in the pillars, her red locks pulled halfway up and out of her face, before turning to face the rest of the girls, "Enough about Sir Geoffrey and Aceline's odd description of women's desires, who did you ladies ask to be your champions?"

Face paling, Emmeline covered her eyes with her palms and Aceline tried to suppress a laugh. Brows furrowed, Evelyn stared at the two questioningly, "Aceline somehow convinced me to send for Lord Byron Peveril."

Colette's eyes widened as she pulled her shawl tighter across her shoulders, "You cannot mean _the_ Byron Peveril – as in the son of a marquis and one of the most eligible suitors in western Illéa."

"The very same," Aceline cackled, picking at imaginary dirt beneath her nails, "Lady Emmeline and he share a history." Her roommate bumped shoulders with the bronze-eyed sailing merchant in an attempt to quiet her.

"You weren't supposed to say anything," Emmeline muttered, heat rising in her dainty face. Smiling sadly, Evelyn folded her hands in her lap, "I suppose I must apologize for the Lady Aceline," she said, "Apparently, she is not very good at keeping secrets." The woman in question chuckled to herself, sharing a private jest with herself as if she found Evelyn's statement one of complete irony.

Colette smirked – deciding to take pity on Emmeline and diverting her attention to the daughter of the Archduke, "So, Lady Roslyn, who did you select as your champion? I suppose King Dorian himself was not an option." When she sensed the tensions rising, Martina shot a warning glance at her roommate but Colette's notice was on Roslyn Clarke.

Ignoring the underlying venom, Rose flashed her perfected smile, "I did indeed question the king as to if he was permitted to partake in the festivities, but alas – he is not. You will just have to wait for the tourney to see who shall fight in my stead."

Evelyn bit her lip, hauling herself to her feet, "Perhaps we should make our way to the party?" The other selected agreed, following Evelyn as she embarked down the halls to the ballroom. Music wafted in all directions and the widow pressed down her anxieties. She entered the room and not too long after, Loreena linked her arm with hers. Evelyn kept walking forward, gazing at the hauntingly beautiful woman. The queen of France nearly shamed all of the Selected with her gown, a sleeveless burgundy gown with a golden belt and neck. She wore a simple circlet around her head instead of a crown, yet the compilation would make any lady green with envy. "How are you this evening, Lady Evelyn?" the queen spoke in her rich, velvet voice.

Evelyn opened her mouth to speak, yet the doors opened for Lady Myla and a man she was sure she'd never see again. Her throat dried. _Impossible._ "Aldrich." She muttered and Loreena flashed her a confused glance before straining to see if she could find her husband who shared a similar name. "If you would excuse me, your majesty." Evelyn said politely and softly, yet her hands shook. Loreena nodded, still quite muddled.

Aldrich looked pale, almost ghostly, as he steadied himself on the Lady Myla. Evelyn's heart lurched, unsure how it was possible but accepting it all the same. She clasped her hands to hide their tremors, shuffling over to the pair. Her dead husband's eyes met hers and she frowned – the usual light green eyes, so like the queen of France's, were swapped with clear blue. His hair was shorter and lighter, not by much but still sun kissed. This man wore a leather jacket whereas Aldrich favored velvet – though perhaps death changed his preference? Evelyn swallowed back her fear and greeted Myla and the ghost from her past.

Myla smiled cheerfully, no different than usual, and Aldrich bowed – displaying no recognition for his wife. When he stood up straight again, he noticed her perplexed expression, "Milady are you well?"

Nodding slowly, Evelyn turned to Myla, "Would you mind if I spoke to Sir Aldrich for a moment?"

Cocking her head to the side, Myla glanced at the man accompanying her, "Did you give me a false name?" Yet the man seemed no less confused than the lot of them, "No, Lady Evelyn, I'm afraid I do not know of a Sir Aldrich – my name is Gideon Westervelt."

A sense of relief but also sinking despair settled over Evelyn and she bowed her head, "Forgive me, you look like a man I used to know."

Sir Westervelt smiled sadly, "No worries, milady – I suppose I must have one of those faces."

Saying her farewells, Evelyn abandoned the pair, feeling quite foolish. She scanned the room for Bailey, though figured it was fruitless considering the knight and old friend of her late husband was fond of dramatic and late entrances. She stumbled over to the refreshment stand but Lady Emmeline blocked her path, appearing desperate. "Evelyn pretend to be in deep conversation with me," she moved the pair so Emmeline's back was to the door, "Lord Byron just arrived." Evelyn peered over the lady's shoulder but the girl tried to gain her attention again, "Don't look!" She whispered, "He'll come over here. Oh god," Emmeline buried her head in her hands, "I will never listen to Aceline ever again."

Evelyn quickly flicked her eyes back to the door and found Aceline standing beside a very attractive man with curly brown hair and a face full of scruffy hair who she figured must've been Lord Byron, "Oh my," Evelyn muttered, "He is quite becoming, how did Aceline know what he looked like?"

Emmeline's eyes widened, "She's with him? I showed her a small portrait," she admitted, "Are they coming this way?"

Looking again, Evelyn's lips parted as Aceline and Byron were in fact making their way in the direction of the two girls, "Do not look now, but yes they are."

Eyes panicked, Emmeline shook her head, "No, I haven't seen him in so long, I miss him terribly but I did not fathom he would actually accept my request."

"Emmeline! Evelyn!" Aceline greeted, her lips turned up in a devious smile before turning to her new friend, "Emmeline, Lord Byron was looking for you." The merchant grasped Evelyn's hand and dragged her away, "Let's let you two catch up."

Evelyn glanced longingly at the refreshment table that she never reached and followed behind Aceline, "Might as well introduce you to the little fetus to keep up appearances," the girl shrugged. "Julian!" She called out and a young man spun around, hair unkempt and a little flustered by his lavish surroundings.

"Aceline," he greeted with a smile, stumbling over the name, yet his eyes widened as they settled on Evelyn, "Who is this lovely lady?"

"Julian, meet Evelyn Hawkins who is quite far above your station and one of his majesty's suitresses," Aceline gestured to the thin and tall boy – though Evelyn considered basically everyone tall considering her height, "Evelyn, meet Julian Beaumont, a terrible pain in my ass."

Julian rolled his eyes at the other woman and extended an arm to Evelyn, "Milady, would you care to dance? I'm afraid I'm not very good but we can sway?"

When Evelyn giggled, a grin pushed its way onto Julian's face – pleased with himself for eliciting such a reaction. She curtseyed and Aceline chuckled before excusing herself to "go vomit" as she claimed. Evelyn accepted Julian's hand, "It would be my pleasure. Besides, I am not much of a dancer myself."

* * *

 **Blame Rene if you were not pleased with me for what I did to Gideon, I wrote that yesterday when the wounds of what she did in Slaves to the Crown were still fresh.**

 **Anyways. Maybe not my best work but I thought it was pretty okay? What did you think?**

 **Some of you may have noticed I switched the rating from T to M, nothing about the story is gonna chance, I don't do explicit sexy times b/c – like Julian – I am a fetus. I just felt that a mature rating fit the themes more than a teen did. Considering sex is like one of the primary forms of entertainment and honestly…it's a pretty dark story…my b…NOTHING IS CHANGING I SWEAR. So if you were willing to read this when it was T, then you should be find with it as M :)**

 **So I'm actually driving to my 2 week writing camp rn…so there is the chance I may not be updating for the next 2 weeks (SIAJ or TS) because I might be socializing or just doing so much writing…idk I may still update. TBD. We'll have to see.**

 **Okay and one last thing, If you have not finished your character because I gave you an extension – PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE get her done. I really need them now. Without a complete form your girl will not get the opportunity to win.**

 **Bye Lovelies!  
~Hailey**


	6. The Night We Met

The Night We Met

i. The Tourney

 _When the night was full of terrors, and your eyes were filled with tears. When you had not touched me yet, take me back to the night we met._

* * *

Dorian ambled along the edge of the beach, his feet sinking into the sand as he gripped his boots in his other hand. To call his appearance "kingly" would imply that the person had never even heard of kings. In fact, Dorian appeared quite ragged. His white shirt dangled at his sides, untucked and forgoing any vests or doublets to cover it; he rolled his slacks to his knees and his curls stuck up in every direction.

The night sky stared down at the young king, taunting him and his inability to sleep that night. Dorian gazed out to the horizon, salt water lapping at his toes, and he froze. Mere feet in front of him was the silhouette of a girl, seated in the sand without a care that the hem of her gown was drenched with each wave that crash against the shore.

Her head was tilted back, eyes squeezed shut and dark hair falling down her back in a loose braid. The moonlight shrouded the woman in a blanket of splendor, the glow turning her into one of the moon's very own stars.

Dorian blinked, realizing he had stared for far too long, and took a step forward, tripping over his feet in the process. He let out a string of curses as he stumbled, kicking up sand and water, before finally regaining his balance while losing a great deal of dignity. Lady Martina jumped at the sound, turning quickly and drawing her shawl tighter against her. But when Dorian raised his eyes from the ground, guilty, she visibly relaxed and barked out a laugh.

"Why if it isn't his majesty himself, quite a sight to behold are you not?" Martina jested, an amused smirk playing on her lips. She lowered her voice in more of a chastising manner, "Were you watching me?"

The king of Illéa's face flushed before the merchant's daughter, and he stuttered, "Me? No, no, of course not!" He spun around in a little circle, gesturing towards the castle, "I just needed a little fresh air."

Martina laughed again and Dorian couldn't help but smile, "Have I, Martina Paola de Vendramin – a mere chronicler, managed to fluster the kingling, Dorian Schreave, himself?"

His jaw dropped, "Kingling?" Her small shoulders, covered only by a thin sheet, bobbed in a shrug, but she made no notion to explain the title, and for some reason, it didn't bother him like he expected it would. He shook his head in bemusement, "What are you doing out here so late anyway?"  
She analyzed the view. His arms were tucked casually into his breeches, boots forgotten in the sand, his Schreave blue eyes collecting the starlight. "I could ask you the very same thing." Dorian tried to counter her by simply raising his brow and tilting his head a little, and she conceded to his silent challenge – allowing the king one little victory, "I wasn't very tired, and I wanted to see the stars."

"And what do you think?"

She wrinkled her nose, causing her already becoming features to contort in a manner that made the king's heart flutter, "I've seen better," she shifted a little, not minding the way sand clung to her arms and back, "Now, your turn – what brings you to the ocean at such an hour?"

"I couldn't sleep," the king admitted, "I had too much on my mind – usually I walk through the gardens instead…I don't know why I chose the ocean."

Martina shrugged again, fiddling with the tips of her braided hair. She brought her knees up to her chest and draped her other arm around them, "As a wise man once said: the ocean…" she bit her lip, knitting her brows together, "…the ocean."

With a laugh, Dorian fell into the sand beside her, sitting closer than one might deem proper, "Let me guess – said 'wise man' is none other than yourself." The Selected girl bumped his shoulder with her own, "I'll have you know, I like to believe I am quite intelligent."

Dorian's lips quirked, heart pounding against his ribs, "I do not doubt that, Lady Martina. Now, correct me if I am wrong, but you have in fact done a lot of traveling?"

She nodded, "Indeed. My family is one of the biggest traders with Italia, though we also associate with Albion, The Imperial Cities, Yuanmou. We used to trade with Bharata, but since relations seemed to have soured – we aren't as invested in that route. Though, if I may speak plainly, Yuanmou and Bharata have the most exquisite silks and spices I've ever encountered."

The king chuckled, a deep throaty sound, and he gazed at her, desire flashing in his cobalt gaze, "I've always wanted to travel," Dorian confessed, turning his attention to the noisy sea, "I've grown up being told that I was to be king someday, and they were right. Here I am – my father dead long before his time." He twisted his hands in his lap, the sky a bruised framework behind him, "But I've always wondered what is beyond these shores. I yearn to visit the city of Limani and the ruins of Drakon in Hellas, the Library of Speyer, or the Ruins of the Zima, or learn the fighting style of the Muscovians. Now I am bound to this cursed land by golden jewels and crowns and," he scoffed, jerking his head towards one of the towers behind them, "exceedingly high walls."

Martina's hazel gaze stayed on his, a ghost of a smile playing at her mouth even if the kingling paid her no notice. This wasn't what she'd been expecting, _he_ hadn't been what she'd expected, "If it's any consolation, I visited the Libraries of Speyer with my father several years ago – the Free Cities tend to exaggerate the size of it."

Dorian's stomach clenched, "Your father?" And suddenly, he was Atlas once more, the world's weight crushing down on him. The memory of his royal duties and his impending fatherhood was all it took for the pair's intimacy to unsettle him. He stood, taking a few steps back, "My apologies, Lady Martina. I've taken up too much of your time, it will be a long day on the morrow, best try to sleep once more. May I escort you to your room?"

Her expression twisted in disappointment, but she nodded. Dorian stretched out a large, calloused hand to her. With a soft smile, Martina accepted the gesture and he wrapped his fingers around hers. They walked in silence, neither daring to strike a conversation and soon enough, they found her door.

Catching her wrist, Dorian stopped her. "Goodnight, My Lady," he said and raised her knuckles to his lips, planting a gentle kiss. A blush burned up the back of Martina's neck, but she dipped into a quick curtsey before departing from the king into her chambers, hand tingling from his touch.

When the brunette disappeared, the king hurried down the hall to prevent awakening any other Selected. A few corridors down, he paused, staring down the dark path to a room in which he'd visited numerous times where his child inside of the woman he loved. Dorian contemplated knocking on Rose's door, even stepped towards it, even raised his fist up, but he hesitated. Shutting his eyes, he pictured her tangled in her sheets, sound asleep. Unwilling to wake her, and considered that with all his other suitresses, it would be quite improper – Dorian abandoned the thought and returned to his room.

Gwaine's head perked at his entrance, claiming the king's usual spot on his bed; however, upon recognizing him, the hound simply fell back asleep. Dorian sighed and scratched the nape of his own neck. Tossing his boots off to the side, he grabbed the chalice and jug nearby and stumbled towards the table in the corner of the room, pouring himself a rather large amount of wine. As he seated himself in the chair, Dorian gazed down at the golden lioness pendant, the one he was to bestow to his future queen at their wedding. He trailed his fingers over the engraving and tried to picture that night.

And his picture was perfect. The guests, the food, the location, _her._ But _she_ was the only missing piece in his puzzle, and for the first time since he met Rose ten and three years prior, he doubted he knew who _she_ was.

Dorian swallowed the rest of the sweet southern wine and discarded his sandy clothes in favor of a clean pair of trousers. Finally, he collapsed onto his bed, exhaustion seeping into his bones – within moments, the king consumed his mind with dreams.

* * *

The wind whipped in the prince's disheveled inky curls. At nine years, his lanky figure easily fit through the branches as he climbed higher in the tree. He climbed and climbed towards the sky, away from the ground and away from the trumpets playing, signaling the arrival of a noble family the young prince Dorian had no cares for. He kept climbing to a break in the leaves and settled along that branch. As he stared down at the castle from where he'd rule the country one day, his eyes caught on three figures emerging from the archway.

"He must be around here somewhere," a voice unmistakable as Catrain's mused and Dorian craned his head to catch a glimpse of his new guests.

Krea's golden hair flashed in the sunlight, "Cat, maybe we should leave him be."

After shooting a glare at her sister, the older princess continued to search for the boy hidden in the trees. Catrain Melisandre Schreave carried herself with an intelligence far beyond her time, though her words dripped of their mother's influence, "Dorian will be king one day, he cannot simply ignore the nobles. Mayhap you should return to the castle and bother Loreena or Terren if you disagree."

A new voice spoke, one Dorian had never heard before and he scooted further along the branch to clear a view. "There's no need, your grace. No harm has been done," the voice assured. Shoving twigs to the side, the prince of Illéa's gaze settled on the new girl. Unlike his two sisters, her russet hair fell down her shoulders, no ridiculous southern fashion simply twisted out of her face. A beauty she was, there could be no doubt about that. Yet Dorian still hid in the trees.

"He's not here," Krea sighed, hiking up her skirts to just below her ankle to step over a patch of dirt. Nodding, Catrain grasped their sister's hands in her own, "Go find Loreena, Lady Elysande is taking over our lessons today, I'll join soon."

Krea's face paled, "Cat, you know Loreena hates me," she said before their guest. The older princess pressed a finger against the golden-haired girl's lips.

"She does not!" Catrain gave the newcomer an apologetic look, "Forgive us, we must return inside." Dorian tilted his head to the side as the stranger nodded, "Tis no problem, your graces, I wanted to get a closer look at the gardens anyways." Rolling his eyes at the formality, Dorian leaned back in the tree, plucking a leaf from its stem.

He listened as the click of his sisters' shoes quieted into nothing and trained his eyes back onto the other girl, but she was gone. Dorian sighed and shuffled towards the trunk in an attempt to descend when he heard someone else climbing.

"Oh!" the strange girl screamed, the ice in her eyes freezing the ocean in his, "I'm sorry – I didn't know anyone else was up here." She frowned at his tousled appearance, "Were you spying on us?"

Dorian shrugged, amusement burning within him – she hadn't recognized him, "I was here long before you had arrived."

Eyes narrowing, the girl clung to a branch, "Who are you? I don't believe the king and queen allow anyone into their gardens, especially not peasantry."

Dorian crossed his arms over his chest, the comment stinging more than the prince cared to admit, and he scowled, "I do believe the king and queen would allow their own _son_ into the gardens."

The girl laughed, though a little more uncertain, but Dorian shifted out of the shade of the leaves and into a patch of sunlight, showing off the lavish clothes his mother dressed him in. He glared at her and she sucked in a breath, realizing his claim was in fact true. "My name is Dorian Schreave, I am the son of Queen Lamia and King Berric – and you just called _me_ a peasant."

The prince swung around on the branch to the other side of the trunk where he could dismount. Appalled by her behavior, the girl rushed to follow as Dorian strode through the pristinely sheared shrubbery maze. "Wait, your grace!" She yelled out behind him, but Dorian ignored her – plucking leaves from his hair so his mother did not throw a fit – and entered the palace.

That night, Dorian perched himself on his bed. He twirled his signet ring around his finger, picturing himself years in the future, pressing the lion seal against melted wax. His door swung open and the prince groaned without looking up, "Terren, what have I told you about knocking."

An older voice laughed, "He's a curious boy, isn't he?" Dorian's head shot up, grinning at his father as he paced into the room, his large, calloused hands drumming against his son's desk, "He just loves the mysteries this castle has for him – it's rather terrifying for me as a father." The nine-year-old prince ran into King Berric Schreave, wrapping his little arms around his father's torso, but then remembered that he purposefully skipped greeting a noble family earlier that day and stepped away, eyes trailed on the ground.

"So, I presume you know you cannot just miss occasions like that?" Berric said, crouching down to reach the younger's height, "Especially when it's the Archduke's family." Dorian nodded, unwilling to meet the king's eyes. "Good. Now," he straightened up, "Let's go down for the feast."

The prince's smile returned and he accompanied King Berric. The stationed guards swung open the heavy doors with ease, and Berric reached out for Dorian's hand, leading him forward.

"Your Majesty!" A voice bellowed, one belonging to a man several years older than the king himself. The man had mousy, sharp features, a small pointed beard on his chin, and dark hair with threads of grey running through – Dorian shuddered.

"Thomas Clarke," King Berric returned, a grin forming on his face, "Well, I'll be damned, you clean up sharp." The man Dorian assumed was the Archduke laughed, though the amusement failed to reach his catlike eyes, ones of the same shade the prince had seen on the strange girl earlier that day. Scouting through the room, Dorian pursed his lips upon finding her among the crowds. She sat straight, as a queen, only eight but so proud and serene – it unnerved him and he turned around. As he tugged at his father's side, the aroma from the kitchen caused his stomach to growl. Laughing, the king pulled him forward, "Let me introduce you to my son. Prince Dorian Cederic Schreave, heir to the Illéan throne."

Thomas bowed to the prince, "Your grace, it's a pleasure." He turned off to the side, "Allow me to introduce you to my daughter, Roslyn Clarke."

The blue-eyed stranger, Roslyn by name, rose to her feet and curtseyed, "Your grace, your majesty."

* * *

"Your majesty."

He peered his eyes open, discovering none other than the face of Gideon Westervelt hovering over him. "Good God," Dorian groaned.

"I know, I am a wonderful face to behold the moment you wake up." Gideon rolled his eyes, a hand rested on the hilt of his sword, as always.

Rubbing his eyes, the king pushed back his covers, "On the contrary, I'd say it's a rather unpleasant first sight."

The knight grabbed a pillow from one of the chairs scattered about his room and threw it at the king, "I believe you should find yourself a manservant then because this is not part of my job description."

"Yeah, yeah, okay." Dorian grumbled, "Get out of here so I can get ready for the tourney. Besides," he turned to his friend, fully dressed in armor, "Don't you have to partake in it?"

"Aye, that I do, I went out onto the training grounds earlier to scope out those I'm fighting against – the Grand Duke Alexander Hildegard is fighting on behalf of his daughter, as is the Viscount William Vasi – but holy hell, Thomas Clarke hired a fucking berserker to fight for Roslyn. The man is terrifying." Gideon shuttered, furrowing his dark brows, and Dorian laughed as he stumbled over to his washroom, "I swear to you, he is taller than the both of us."

"Combined?" the king cackled, and Gideon let out an exasperated sigh, but said no more and departed from the room. Dorian stared at the mirror before him, running his fingers through his hair, now cropped and shorter than it was ten and three years ago. He scratched at the angry mark along his shoulder and upper arm, now pink instead of red after healing. A mark he lacked when he was nine. It still itched occasionally, even after the time that passed, unlike the white line along his neck that healed long before. Dorian grabbed a shirt from his wardrobe, pulling it on over his head to cover his scar from his own view. He was no longer nine, no longer some prince whose father was never very skilled at chastising him. No longer an innocent boy.

"Dorian, I am coming in so please be wearing trousers," Terren said as he opened the door. Gwaine whined at the prince's intrusion, but Dorian laughed as he laced his doublet, "Okay good," Terren nodded, pleased to find his brother actually clothed. Then he frowned, "Why is it that you are the king, but your outfits are the least ornate out of all of us?"

Dorian screwed up his nose, eyeing his brother's scarlet coat, his luxurious jerkin buttoned up to the neck underneath, "I do not enjoy fineries, dear brother. The crown is even too much for me." He rested his hands on the gilded crown, intricate designs interwoven adorned with several solid gold lions. It was too much in his mind, but it had been with the Schreaves since the first king after the fourth great war, King Davus. Dorian's father wore it, and his father's father before that – it was one of the last pieces of the Late King Berric Dorian could cling to. Terren shook his mop of sunlight hair – his own crown, and gestured towards the door, "Anyhow, your public awaits."

The king patted the side of his thigh, "Gwaine, to me." Instantly, the hound obliged, trotting along beside the brothers as they made their way down to the arena. By the time they made it to the center, Dorian blinked in shock as all the Selected girls scuttled about from one another and to their champions. All of them. "Are we late?"

Terren shook his head, "No, Lady Elysande simply had them come earlier than you were required to. Besides, Dor – you're king now, you're never considered to be late." As Terren spoke, Dorian caught sight of Lady Emmeline and, to the king's dismay, an incredibly handsome lord beside her, both appearing rather uncomfortable.

Giving his brother a slight smile and a nod, he marched over to the pair, Gwaine still at his side. "Your Majesty!" Lady Emmeline gasped, dipping into a curtsey, her companion following suit with a bow. "Your Majesty, it's a pleasure," the man said, "I am Lord Byron of House Peveril, son of Ambrose Peveril, and Lady Emmeline's champion."

Gwaine snarled at the Lord Byron, stepping a little closer beside Dorian, and Emmeline's eyes lit up at the sight of the hound, despite his malicious noise, "Your grace, I wasn't aware you had a dog!"

Before she could step forward, Byron placed a cautious hand on the Selected girl's arm, "Emmeline, I'm not so sure-"

"She doesn't need to worry about Gwaine," Dorian laughed, "He's used to Rose and my sisters," the king shot a warning glance towards the lord, "It's other men he's not fond of."

Accepting the comment as an invitation, Emmeline crouched down beside the dog and scratched him behind his ear. The vicious hound melted away, revealing the puppy Roslyn often saw. Dorian returned his attention to Byron, "Good luck today, Lord Peveril." The king glanced down at Gwaine and shrugged, letting the dog bask in the love for a while longer. After the lord nodded in gratitude, Dorian wandered off in search of Roslyn or Gideon or one of his siblings – he hadn't decided who yet.

"Why, if it isn't the Kingling Dorian Schreave."

With a smile, he turned towards Martina's honeyed voice, "And if it isn't the wise old man, Lady Martina de Vendramin. What can I do for you upon this fine day?"

She chuckled, tugging at a loose strand of hair from her elaborate half-down-half-up braid, "Last night you mentioned wanting to travel," She averted her eyes to the ground, a little embarrassed, and clutched a book to her chest, "But because of your responsibilities as prince before and now king you never had the opportunity to." Outstretching the book towards him, Martina bit her lip, "This is one of my journals when I was younger, I figured since you are unable to travel, the least I could do is recount my tales of traveling."

Dorian's heart skipped a beat and his mind whirled, he thought back to his times with Roslyn, their laughs, their kisses – she'd given him everything she could, and he did the same. The gifts, the private declarations of love, the sparring – She was his greatest companion and he loved her with all his heart. But then again, she was the love of Prince Dorian, of _King_ Dorian. The love of a royal who could never show affection besides friendship to the court.

And Dorian never wanted to be king.

He hated the secrets, the lies, the games of pretend. He didn't _want_ to be Dorian of House Schreave, King of Illéa, son of the Late King Berric. No, he wanted to be Sir Dorian, a knight who could travel the world, see all he wanted to see for himself – and to that Dorian, well, Roslyn Clarke was simply his best friend.

He hated himself for it, the guilt ate away at his insides like poison – she was carrying his child after all. Yet, with thirty and two other girls seeking his favor, Dorian found it difficult to resist the dream's temptation. _Such a beautiful dream_. Not being known as the prince who found it too boring to greet a noble family, so didn't because he was to be king someday. Not the prince who let his elder sister grow to despise him without fighting for her, fighting for them. But the knight who could love his dame in every way. He could scream it off a mountain, shout it to the world, without fear of shaming her.

That Dorian wrapped his fingers around the worn leather cover of the journal.

As he accepted her gift, Martina grinned in accomplishment, and the king flipped open to a random page. He raised his eyebrows, gaze sparkling with laughter and Martina tried to crane her neck over the book to see what he was looking at. Before she could do so, Dorian turned it around to show off one of her old drawings, "Is this meant to be a dress for a horse?"

Martina's cheeks burned but she attempted to play it off with a slight roll of the eyes, "No! That's a traditional robe to wear amongst the wealthy in China," she scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest, and flashing him a little smirk, "Please Kingling, have a little class."

Bursting out laughing, Dorian tucked the book under his arm, "You have my gratitude for this, it was very kind of you."

She shrugged, "It's nothing, I have dozens of those books, they're a wonderful way to pass the time when you're away from home for two years."

His eyes widening, Dorian appeared almost envious, "Two years?"

Martina nodded, "Two years of dealing with sloppy sailors, angry foreign merchants, and barely any solid ground." She shifted from foot to foot, not wishing to elaborate any further – maybe from recounting the story too many times, so Dorian simply smiled and changed the subject.

"I never did say this, but you look lovely today." It wasn't a lie. Perchance he preferred the simple white gown covered in sand, the lack of cosmetics the maids caked their ladies' faces in, the bare feet, the loose braid, and the careless nature, but Martina was still breathtaking in her blue silk gown hemmed with a golden brocade – an exotic fashion to fit an exotic woman.

"Dorian, Lady Martina," Lamia greeted with an unfeigned smile at the sight of them, "The tourney is about to begin, I suggest you both find your seats."

The pair found their spots, Dorian also among the other Selected – a recommendation from the Queen Mother herself. The king, however, was seated beside Lady Colette on the left and Lady Cesraeah on the right while Martina remained between Ladies Rhiannon and Esmerelda further ways down.

"Any bets on the winner?" Dorian asked the pair beside him. Gwaine's ears perked from beside Emmeline at the noise and he returned to his owner's side, strategically placing himself next to Cesraeah as well.

Colette leaned in closer to the king, "It is impossible not to be biased in this situation, your grace. After all, those men partaking in that competition are of our choosing and are fighting to get us some time alone with you. So, of course, I will have to say Thoro Dilloris."

With a smile, Dorian nodded and attempted to keep his eyes on Colette's face with great difficulty. She dressed for the hot weather in Anwealda, lacking any sleeves aside from simple straps, but in addition to the corset, the neckline of her dress plunged to where, if he looked, her cleavage would be completely exposed to him. His eyes twitched, yearning to flicker down, but he kept them focused on her face. Her full lips tilted in a smirk, dark brown, piercing eyes, missing of the same softness of Martina or Roslyn's.

"On the contrary," Cesraeah began and Dorian let out a soft sigh of relief that he could then focus on the red-haired beauty beside him, "I have very little faith in Sir Geoffrey, so I will be betting on Sir Gideon."

Dorian chuckled, "Believe me, I do not blame you. Sir Geoffrey can barely hold a sword properly, let alone a javelin. He's here attempting to win my sister's favor, the poor fool."

To Cesraeah's right, Lady Lisbeth piped in, "My friend, Christian, knows nothing about a melee, so unlike Colette, I am not willing to bet any money on him, though I will have to go with the Grand Duke Alexander Hildegard. He has the most practice with these sorts of games and certainly has the strength for it."

"But Sir Gideon has youth on his side!" Cesraeah said, arguing with the petite brunette beside them, "He's probably much nimbler."

Dorian rolled his eyes, knowing that if Sir Gideon heard this conversation, his ego would inflate twice the size of his head, "Aye that he is."

Before them, Adelina and Geretrudis' champions charged at one another, and despite his rather scrawny appearance, Geretrudis' unseated that of Adelina's, taking him to the next round.

Twisting around in her seat in front of the group, Lady Myla frowned, a look of concern etched on her face, "But Sir Gideon is injured."

The king froze, "What do you mean he's injured?" Dorian thought back to that morning – noticing the more clunky way his guard walked and the slightly paler look on his face, and then at the party the night before where he was constantly leaning against Lady Myla or someone else for support. "What happened?"

Before Myla could speak, the knight in question rode out against Christian Klaryns and Dorian held his breath, but sure enough, Gideon unseated Lisbeth's champion with ease.

Much to Colette and Lisbeth's pleasure, both Thoro and Alexander made it into the next round along with Gideon. Lord Byron defeated Evangeline's champion, though Viscount William Vasi beat Sir Geoffrey with ease, and by the end of the first round, Dorian nearly jumped at the sight of Roslyn's champion. Njal Rasmussen was everything Gideon claimed him to be – tall, strong, and intimidating. Dorian glanced down at his frame and then back up to Njal's with a scowl, wondering if he should grow a beard or get a tattoo.

In the second round, Thoro and Alexander charged at one another, and the crowd screamed, Ladies Colette and Lisbeth in particular as they had some prize resting upon this round. They waved banners, some with the Schreave lion, others with the sigil of their own house. When Alexander's javelin splintered against Thoro's shield and the foreign mercenary fell onto the dirt, Colette grumbled, though sat back down, ignoring the pride in Lisbeth's expression.

Njal returned and Dorian shot a glance at Roslyn several rows down in almost a protective manner, making sure she was not eying the Viking the way many women, and some men, in the crowd were. A pleased smirk reached his lips when he found no such look, and pity bubbled in his gut as Njal's opposition rode out. Julian, the king believed his name was – Aceline's champion. It took very little for the victor to be determined and Dorian could've sworn he'd seen Julian shaking as he stood from the ground. Aceline even abandoned her spot to tend to him.

This time, Gideon faced Lord Byron. His stomach knotted in concern for his friend's wellbeing, but the knight's javelin barely touched the Lord's shield while Byron nearly jumped from the saddle, as though he purposefully lost. Myla shot to her feet, cheering on the knight and Emmeline tilted her head to the side in confusion. Dorian ran his fingers through his hair. The following round, both Gideon, and Alexander advanced, and due to the odd number of contestants, Njal sat out.

Much like Lisbeth predicted, Alexander's skill allowed him to defeat the Viking in the fourth round, pitting the Grand Duke against Gideon in one final joust. Lisbeth and Cesraeah shared a look. Together, they shot to their feet, screaming the names of their preferred champion. Dorian laughed at the sight as they each tried to be the one to yell louder while Colette remained cross armed beside him. If he wasn't so amused, the king would almost be frightened at the loud behavior of the girls he'd only seen calm and composed. Myla cheered alongside Cesraeah, while Odette favored her father with Lisbeth. Soon enough, all of the Selected sat divided. Martina, Roslyn, Titania, Sybell, Aceline, Evelyn, Emmeline, Josian, Tristana, Guinevere, Cecily, Erinys, Adelina, and Geretrudis behind Gideon. While Mairead, Penelope, Arya, Rhiannon, Sabina, Esmerelda, Adelais, Evangeline, Vanessa, Cedany, Edith, Marion, and Lysandra stood behind Alexander. Throughout this, Colette and Dorian remained impartial, even if the king rooted for his knight in private.

Gideon's horse stamped against the first and snorted, haunches tensed. But the knight led him forward while Alexander Hildegard's steed remained still. Dorian picked out the face of the man Gideon mentioned to him, Dario, he said his name was, though gave no surname. They were cousins, Gideon mentioned, and Dario looked upon the scene with the same concern broiling in his eyes that Dorian did. Unlike the girls, Dorian and Dario were soldiers, they noticed the faults in the knight's position, they noticed that after every round, Gideon's reflexes slowed, he sweat a little more, and wore an uncomfortable expression.

"Sir Gideon's horse is frightened," Lady Sabina muttered from behind the king, "He won't be able to defeat Alexander with a skittish horse." Dorian nodded in agreement, a motion that startled the ginger behind him.

Pulling back on the reigns, Gideon attempted to stabilize his mount, but then the flag dropped and the pair charged. The noise of the crowds faded and the king's ears pounded.

"C'mon, C'mon, C'mon," Dorian whispered and Colette shot him a look – unsure who he was rooting for. Hoofs slammed against dirt; men, and women from all around Anwealda, and some even further, leaned over the railing.

A lance slammed against a shield, splinters flew, and Gideon fell from his horse, landing on his back. The crowd cheered, though many hissed in displeasure. Odette appeared most pleased of all to see her father victorious, especially as he neared her with a crown of roses, something each Selected whose champion won would wear.

Dorian returned his attention to Gideon, still flat on the ground, and he furrowed his brow. "Sir Gideon should've stood by now," Lady Cesraeah said.

"That he should," the king agreed.

Myla swung around and clutched Dorian's hands in his lap, "Is he alright?"

"I hope so," Dorian stood to his feet, gently releasing Myla's hands. Gideon tried to sit up but even from a distance, his friend could make out his grunt of pain. Dario hurried to the floor and Dorian followed soon after.

"Do you have any idea what happened to him?" the king asked his knight's cousin.

The blonde man shook his head, "Not a clue, your majesty. He visited me yesterday and seemed perfectly fine. He told me to meet him at the castle gates this morning, and he was there. Seemed a little more tired than usual but I figured it was because he'd just gotten less sleep."

Gideon groaned and pulled off his helmet with a grimace, "I can still talk for myself, you know."

"You look like shit, cousin," Dario chuckled, tossing the discarded helmet at an unsuspecting squire, and wrapping one of the knight's arms around his shoulder as Dorian did the same with the other arm.

"I feel like shit." Gideon countered and the king laughed, the Selected watched on in confusion as the king, still wearing his crown and everything, carried the injured knight. He then turned to the squire, "Tell my mother to continue the tourney without me and Sir Gideon, he will not be partaking any further." Dorian turned to Dario, "Would you care to take Gid's place for the Lady Myla? Think of it almost as a test of your skills for the king's guard."

The man shot a glance back and the pleased Alexander, and nodded, "With pleasure. Let me just assist you in getting my idiot cousin to a tent." The pair dragged the complaining knight into a nearby pavilion and rested him on a cot. Dario grabbed a bow and quiver from the ground and marched back out, practically ready to murder Alexander Hildegard.

Gideon's squire rushed in, unaware of the king's presence, and began removing armor. "Is there any way I can help?" Dorian asked, causing the squire to jump.

"Your Majesty!" he exclaimed, bowing quickly, "I'm sorry-"

"There's no time for that, how can I help?"

The squire gave him instructions, leading him through the process while Gideon sat there and complained about how loud they were being. Once the chest plate was removed, Dorian scratched the back of his head at the sight of blood seeping through the knight's shirt.

Pausing, the king looked Gideon straight in the eyes, "What happened?" he asked then pointed to the blood.

Gideon gave him a sheepish grin, "Some bastard stabbed me yesterday."

Eyes widening, Dorian bit his lip for a moment, still silent, before crossing his arms and placing a fist under his chin, "And in what god damn world does that mean you go and participate in a melee the next day? Hell, even attend a party that evening?"

The knight pursed his lips yet made no defense to his actions. With a roll of his eyes, Dorian smacked the man's head, "You stupid…bone idled...toad!"

* * *

 **I am terrible.**

 **I know I say this practically every chapter but I am so bad at actually updating now…jfc. I'm trying I swear!**

 **Just so we're clear, the archery tournament is going on in the background of this chapter, but Dorian is too busy telling Gideon he's an idiot, y'all will find out what happened during it next chapter.**

 **I also did not feel like going in and reading all of this out loud to myself…so the majority of it is probably unedited…whoops. Sorry if it's terrible**

 **Bye Lovelies!  
~Hailey**


	7. Author's Note

Okay, so it's been like...over a year since I've updated this and I wish I could say I was going to continue it, but looking back on what I've done in the past years with this story there was stuff I wish I _hadn't,_ and at this point can't really fix. I also want to start fresh and have a new story in the works (one that i probably will not be updating once a week, but will still try to actually stick with)

That being said I am posting this here to let you know that if you are still interested in literally anything I have to write, I am more than okay with y'all just resubmitting your old characters, it had nothing to do with that, more of just my overall plot I was struggling with. Of course, it's a completely different setting, completely different royals, so there will be things what would need to be edited, but I, once again, have no problem with those girls just being reused.

Thank you! And I'm sorry for the MASSIVE hiatus.


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